Fragments from the Lost & Profound

Printed: 371 pages, 6.14" x 9.21", perfect binding, 55# white interior paper, black and white interior ink , 90# exterior paper, full-colour exterior ink Publisher: Peter Kilgannon Copyright: 2006 by Peter Kilgannon Standard Copyright License Language: English Country: United Kingdom (Great Britain) Edition: First Edition Version: 3 Available on : lulu.com

Chapter One
"How would you describe yourself?" she had asked him not long after they had met. "Badly," He had said, " I'm almost entirely 'on the inside' I think and somewhat indeterminate, or indeterminable; a bit like Schroedinger's Cat possibly; pretty dark material. For the sake of accuracy I could only describe myself in terms of what I do, or what I did, in any particular event. I think that's itprobably. I would just stick to the events, and what I did in them. I think I would always be too careful to be correct, and inevitably understate everything. It would be all black and white. I think I would come across as the pitiful victim of a silent movie - bewildered, harmlessly comic. I think I would make a complete mockery of myself and probably everyone else too." "I was looking for something a little bit simpler" she laughed nervously, "Not your life maybe ." "You couldn't get a more simple description." He said, mocking himself, " It would be relentlessly twodimensional; like a cartoon. It would be bad; very poor indeed; laughable !" She was not alone in remaining unconvinced. ____________________

Chapter One.2
It was getting darker. Apparently, on the ebb of a lullaby dream, Whisper desperately misread the shifting balance between light and dark; day and night. There was to be no bang or whimper, but there would be an alarm. Wide-eyed as a rabbit, he would spring from sleep like a fugitive. He would freeze and wonder where he was; wonder who he was; wonder if he was in danger; wonder if he should move or stay still. It was the nature of his life that all his awakenings would be rude, and entirely unexpected. He viewed with admiration, and suspicion, those people who rose gracefully from sleep like dolphins reaching for air. He was genuinely puzzled by such grace. For him sleeping and waking were two states separated by an abyss. And each state brought with it a total ignorance of the other. Transfer to or from either state was always accompanied by surprise and shock. He fell into sleep as off the edge of a cliff; clean as a power cut, and awoke like a man walking into a plate glass door. When the clock crowed it was common for him to screech hysterically as he leapt from his bed not at all like dolphin. On this particular morning, however, it was a gentle shake from his wife that had wrenched him from his sleep; from the ebb of his lullaby dream, but the result was the same. He launched into the air like a blind man surprised. A more athletic man could have landed on the cat without serious discomfort, but this man had no hinges. In consequence he was effectively propelled into a forward roll that lacked any bend in the middledumping him beyond the carpet with the leaden grace of a badly-tossed caber. Ironically the cat seemed to take the greater offence 6

from the experience and emitted a piercing scream. This mercifully masked the sickening thud that was the poor mans head meeting an indifferent floor. For Whisper, it had all begun badly. Already delayed by these events, he could hardly afford the fleeting minutes of concussion that followed. So he was grateful to the good and dutiful wife for bringing him round, 'though the helpful slap still rattled across his teeth like a xylophone. A certain soreness around his neck also suggested that there might have been firm fingers round his throat. The experience was not all bad, however, and one of the unexpected benefits of the concussion was a residual state of unfounded bliss. This expressed itself primarily in an over-all benign mood and an immovable, almost Christian, smile which prompted unrestrained aggression in everyone subjected to it. Even the cheery, cheeky-chappie bus conductor was moved to snarl...... " So whats your problem ! " Neither Whisper nor anyone else on the bus could quarrel with the conductors expressed disquiet - the journey to work was no place for a beaming smile. But Whisper was blameless. He had simply been possessed by the smile. Of all of those who knew him few would suggest that euphoria and optimism were prominent features of his meagre personality. To date it had certainly never found its way onto his face. As is always the case with euphoria, it didn't last. Emerging from this giddy state, Whisper was taken aback to learn that animals do appear to have a sense of humour. The revelation came to him through the air. It wafted up from his shoes into which the vengeful cat had relieved itself of its sense of injustice, and the contents of its bladder. And it was for the reason he was later discovered, by the ex-first-world-war messenger, washing his socks in the Mens Room at the office.

Unfortunately, this was the messenger's second discovery. The first had been Whisper's soiled shoes left gasping for fresh air in the open window of his office, looking for all the world as if some unbalanced soul had just plummeted out of them onto the car park beneath. The logic was incomplete but the messenger, having already used the lion's share of his breath in the strictions of world war 1, now gladly sacrificed the balance in a headlong pursuit down six flights of stairs to minister to the desperate man's spread-eagled bones . which, of course, were not there. In consequence of this earlier trauma and exertion, the messenger desperately wanted to say something to Whisper when he found him washing his socks in the sink. But his depleted supply of air was too slow to support speech and he could only turn purple. Whisper, for his part, had adjusted to his discomfort and offered only the briefest of explanations as he left "Cat's Piss." he had said, and the messenger, purpling even more, gripped the sink behind him with a fierceness that could only indicate possible remembrances of his own terrifying encounters with cat's piss. Inside the toilets the messenger fought to control his breathing while outside Whisper padded back to his office disturbed only by a final, sudden and vicious explosion from the recent distance "Cat's piss! I'll give him fucking cat's piss!" Whisper was initially confused, but reasoned that the messenger couldnt possibly be referring to him. God knows, hed had enough cat's piss to last him a lifetime. And, like original sin, cat's piss cannot be washed away not in a day anyway. Like all civil servants, Whisper quickly adjusted to his afflictions and applied himself to minimizing their effects. In this case, this amounted to simply opening wide his windows. Then, for the first time that day, he relaxed. 8

He sat back in his chair and breathed in the good air. He sighed with gentle resignation and 'tutted' at the whips and scorns of life before sitting forward abruptly to re-engage in government business. It is impossible to say whether it was the abrupt movement or the inevitable consequence of mild concussion but, without warning, he suddenly and singly vomited into his lap. It was an event without fuss or any real discomfort, and the damage was limited to a small area around his groin. Quietly he groaned and then once more repaired to the Mens Room. With a developing expertise, he hunched over the sink and scrubbed feverishly at the blemish about his groin. In the process he imagined the doubtful picture he presented to anyone who might suddenly come in, and the thought caused him to chuckle with amusement. And he continued to chuckle as he scrubbed. And, in the throes of his chuckling, he failed to hear the toilet behind him flush and the cubicle door open slowly. It would be idle speculation to guess what desperate thoughts must have flashed through that poor observer's mind in that awful instant. Suffice to say that the door closed again immediately, as slowly and noiselessly as it had opened, and it remained closed until Whisper had left some twenty minute later. Twenty minutes in which the chuckling developed into a fit of giggling, hysteria, weeping and whelping! Having drawn confidence from his laundering, Whisper set off on the usual morning round of his staff in the Finance Section. It was an inescapable task but one he normally faced with some relish since the young cashier, Chloe, was particularly pretty and had an accelerating effect on his "libido". At times the acceleration had become visible, which was just one of the reasons people whispered.

Had Chloe Street, the cashier, not been a young girl of gentle breeding and meek manners it is unlikely she would have reacted in the way she did to the crippling and unmistakable stink of urine, and Whisper unashamedly sodden about the genitals. Even by her own standards, however, it was extreme to screech and fling up her arms, dispatching the remains of her coffee about the room. In turn, it is fair to say that had Mr. Williams not been bald he would not have reacted so immediately to the scalding drink disporting itself about his head and temples. With hindsight, it was undoubtedly a mistake for Whisper to offer physical help to the distressed cashier since this produced in her a wild, flailing kind of hysteria which was the first sight to greet Mr. Williams on his recovery. Not unreasonably, he presumed some sort of sexual assault, and joined the melee, 'though on which side it wasn't quite clear. The upshot of this was the violent disturbance of a delicate but otherwise mysterious piece of machinery that caused sufficient sparks to start a small fire among the paper work. Simultaneously runners took it upon themselves to alert the office in general to the crazed psychotics apparently loose among the women. Subsequent arrivals included ambulances, fire engines and serried ranks of policemen with loud hailers and atrocious grammar. At this point things started to get out of hand. _______________ Whispers origins, like rumour, were obscure but most recognised that he came from the very heart of Lancashire, 'though some suggested that there was clear evidence of a period spent lodged somewhere in the bowels. There was a gentle roundness of speech that caused him to talk in bubbles, like comic-book characters, and a slowness of delivery that forever suggested he had dust on one of his spark plugs. Even when declaiming most purposively on the most abstract of matters he was able to 10

give the impression of a man ordering a complicated variety of "take-away" for a party of fifteen. And at the end of his declaiming he would always laugh, failing to understand that laughter is rarely reassuring. Graham Roundwood was the name he had been given at his Christening. This itself had been a memorable affair where his Irish uncle James, trusted with the lighted candle for just a minute, managed to spill molten wax on his only good finger. Taken by surprise, he struggled to retain control, and no-one doubted the expression of real feeling in his involuntary emission...... "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" And so they all replied, "Pray for us!", propelling the astonished blasphemer into an improvised litany of every saint he knew, like a frantic man pursued by the relentless hordes of the undead. It seemed that they were all destined for involuntary trance until the baby, Graham, broke wind and spread coughing among the group with an equivalent degree of hysterical fervour. They eventually staggered from the church, red-eyed and distracted, after an experience that had been emotionally and physically exhausting, but spiritually disappointing. Even then some already whispered of Graham and his disturbing odours. The priest, being closest to the blast, seemed to suffer some permanent damage to his left eye which thereafter became subject to involuntary weeping. This proved severest, as a disability, at funerals where people generally expected to see weeping from both eyes. Some of the more distant relatives remained ever soured by the memory. And even uncle James seemed unreasonably bitter, observing later that had Whisper's ungodly discharge been closer to the candle it would have been a real baptism of fire. Exaggerating in drink, he insisted that any inevitable explosion would have taken off his hand and probably both of his eyes. Even the close

11

relatives suspected that there was something of the devil in that fart. From then on he grew, in a niggardly fashion. Although he displayed no real indications of malevolence he was a sullen creature who spitefully refused to grow big and bouncy, but remained meager and milky; a boy tensed against the touch; constraining his physical development into splinters and angles to frustrate the cuddle. But his mother refused to be defeated and merely covered his projecting limbs with a tartan shawl, continuing to nurse him at the breast and drone sad lullabies into the early hours, forever looking like a woman secretly playing the bagpipes. His father, on the other hand, was always afraid to touch him in case he broke something, like his heart. At five years of age he went to school where he was again embraced by religion 'though this embrace was clamped about him like chains to an unruly beast. He was cross-examined daily as to who made him and in whose image and likeness he had been made. Being a bright boy, he quickly learned that the answer to all questions was inevitably "God". And, given his own observable "image and likeness" he was forced to conclude that God could not be a very prepossessing figure, even allowing for his unbounded wisdom which no doubt would inform both his taste and his dress sense. While one expected God himself might be designed along the inimitable lines of a Bugatti, the consequential iterations had undoubtedly produced a considerable number of Skodas. As for Whisper himself, he displayed all the design qualities of a deck chair, if only deck chairs could fart. All other concerns in religion seemed to revolve around death. after which one apparently took to glowing in company, and hovering at about shoulder height. If the pictures are to be believed the living were always impressed by this performance although Whisper suspected that they stood back not in amazement but to avoid 12

anything that might be dripping from the incandescent areas. Death was clearly a condition devoutly to be wished for, according to the religious. But to discourage those who sought it too eagerly, by skipping the mortal coil, there were reduced benefits to suicides. It was never made clear what the reduction in benefits might be but, apparently, after committing suicide you were unlikely to progress to glowing. And without the glowing the hovering becomes a real problem because noone can be certain you are dead. You could be mistaken for a living person who is simply hovering, and in consequence attract considerable abuse. Even if you were to succeed in convincing others that you were in fact dead, the absence of glowing would inform them that you died in a seriously imperfect condition. Such a perceived status, a cheat or worse, would still attract undesirable abuse. On balance it appeared a poor arrangement. God was clearly a person who had no intention of letting you have your ice cream until you had finished your greens. This particular trait did, of course, prove that Whisper's parents, at least, had been made in God's image and likeness. He, poor sod, was a reject! And if religion did not present enough mysteries and terrors at school there was more. Inexplicably the whole class was made to sleep in the afternoons, on beds like medieval stretchers and under blankets constructed from wire wool. Arranged in serried ranks in the school hall tiny bodies were laid out in sleep beneath dusty, grey army blankets like refugees from a flood. Whisper screamed. He had problems sleeping anyway. But the promise of Jesus and all his angels watching over him reduced him to hoarse hysteria. He imagined the air thick with mute bodies, drunkenly bumping into each other as they glowed and hovered like the Harlem Globetrotters on acid. In consequence he wet himself and went squelching for the door where he was 13

captured and brought back, weeping. He did this many times, on many days. He knew then that to endure this torture for the prospect of the uncertain pleasure of some later glowing was a bad deal. He, poor sod, was a reject! At high school he led a solitary life caged inside a body he found far too big for his needs, and incorporating functions he would never use. He was slow to recognise the rudimentary plumbing of intercourse but was already disgusted at the various excretions by which the body disposed of its waste. He had already suffered terrible embarrassment consequent upon his inability to control these functions at all times. And if that were not bad enough, the complications of the sartorial soon loomed ominously. In the absence of a mirror, which he never carried, his perception of himself was always the same - without a face and looking downwards along a familiar torso, with very familiar clothes. He never got to see himself move, while all around him everyone else positively buzzed with animation. Far from having a starring role in the observable drama of his life, he appeared to be forever pushing the bloody camera. Everyone else appeared to be in technicolour while he was in monochrome. Whenever he spoke the sound seemed immediately external, entirely remote from himself; like a sick boy unable to go out he seemed to be forever talking to people through his window. Even if he succeeded in getting people to come to his window to talk to him his body would let him down with its anarchic malfunctions. Even if he conquered the farting, smells would sneak out from under his arms or between his toes, and always he would only catch the smell at exactly the same time as everyone else. At least with a fart you got a moment's warning so you could create a diversion. Other smells announced their presence on the tortured and disgusted faces of the innocent. Predictably, the embarrassment of such social gaffs detonated 14

incendiaries into his bowels from where a riff raff of explosive reports would strafe the surrounding company as he raced to the toilet. Once there he not only evacuated the offending bowels but also the adjacent cubicles. In a genuine attempt to forestall all of this he developed the aggressive tactic of pretending, very loudly, to have detected foul smells as soon as he came within hailing distance of any lifeforms. The cure was predictably far worse than the original complaint since he merely gained a justifiable reputation for incipient madness. Where most people would greet each other with a civil " Hello !", he was wont to approach all living things from a shouting distance of ten yards with a - "Hey up, what's that bloody pong !?" The incompetence of the manoeuvre became plain to him following a succession of woeful encounters. The most disturbing flaw in the logic was that from a distance of some fifteen yards it was often unclear as to whom he was directing his remarks. The effect was of a man speaking in tongues from the wilderness; a distracted soul addressing the world. And sadly the message he proclaimed was terribly disappointing, unless regarded as some kind of parable - "something rank in the state of Denmark", or the like. To most it remained a mystery whether or not a localised and unadopted pong inferred a wider corruption in the world at large. But to those few directly affected the issue was moot as they struggled with the immediacy of the toxic fall-out which, at times, hit with the full force of a biblical plague. Although there was no weeping or gnashing of teeth, there was a good deal of coughing and unconsummated nausea. Eventually he abandoned the tactic and took to deodorant. His early attempts were not too successful here either since he simply managed to spice his usual, foul odours with an inappropriate sweetness. And this surprising cocktail simply acted as a trigger to the previously15

controlled retch, and peppered his life with vomit. He was particularly distressed at what this did to his shoes which already housed a veritable cornucopia of disagreeable smells. He subsequently discovered that a combination of regular washing and deodorant did the trick. It must be said, however, that his diligence in relation to the first operation was unreliable, and his enthusiasm in applying the second bordered on the excessive. There were days when he remained alluringly hidden behind a breathtaking cloud of cheap perfume; billowing from room to room like a wise man who has fumbled his myrrh. In spite of all of this he managed to claw his way into adulthood and a begrudged career in the Civil Service. His dreams nosed him in the direction of the Diplomatic Service but this same nose informed him that his body probably lacked the required tact. In total anarchy of his desires his body dragged him back to the more plebeian comforts of the Social Security where he was daily harangued by the melancholic and their Alsation dogs. Without the distraction of having friends, his rise to assistant Manager was meteoric, in the sense that the arrival of meteors and reports of their passing are greeted equally with surprise and disbelief. Indeed Whisper did have the demeanour and appearance of a disorientated extraterrestrial. One who rose daily from the phosphorous mists of some alien pit looking for solace. But all he ever found were twitching noses and apologies that lacked conviction. All of his conversations had that under-water quality where people appeared to be speaking in gasps; holding their breath and casually paddling their hands to maintain a favourable flow of air. For his Manager, Mr.Priestman, Whisper's accession to the Management team had represented a blow of cosmic proportions, pivotal in its effect on his sanity. Priestman was a singular man but with a stereotypical 16

profile. Had Peter the Great survived it is doubtful, being a Russian, that he could have secured a post in the home Civil Service so, in his absence, Priestman sought to fill the perceived gap. He brought a malevolence to command that defied understanding. He had once been a very ruthless man and now he was positively psychotic. He retained sufficient intelligence, however, to disguise his worst excesses beneath a fairly plausible exterior. Predictably he hated Whisper for his unsocial vices and the continual embarrassment he represented whenever Priestman sought to parade his executive forces. Clouding above his array of sharp-dressed lieutenants there would always be halitosis. Ironically, it had been he who had fought for Whisper's promotion. He had entertained the foolhardy belief that he would be consequently "poached" away from him - only to discover that no-one else wanted him. Hoist by his own petard, he was left to cultivate whole new varieties of bitterness. Whisper was justifiably elated by his elevation, and mercifully he was spared the venomous abuse of his colleagues because none of them could ever bring themselves to speak to him. Celebrations of the promotion were sadly curtailed as his father chose to die at this time. Although he had always vied with his son for attention, it is unlikely that this was the motive on this occasion. He died of a heart attack, the significance of which was not lost on Whisper who was perpetually under attack from his own organs - thankfully only the minor ones. His mother had "gone" some time earlier which was predictable since it had always been the family way to send her on ahead to scout around. This mainly applied to picnics and, while death is no picnic, the principles are somewhat the same. This was, at least, his father's view. After waiting some considerable time the mother had not returned and so the presumption was that it was safe to follow.

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The father, who had always been a man to get full value, left a will. He did not leave any money but he did leave a will. And the will comprised a considerable list of instructions for his burial. Fortunately the solicitor was Brewholder who was every bit as senile as the father and managed to confuse matters sufficiently to render them unintelligible and inoperable. What was unavoidable, however, was his expressed wish to have his ashes scattered over the Irish sea. There was also some confused request for some lines from Kipling but it seemed grossly inappropriate to exhort a dead man to "keep his head", especially when the rest of him was in the process of being offered like baking powder to the choppy waters. On the appointed day it was again Uncle James who accompanied Whisper onto the Irish boat to execute at least some of the dead man's last wishes. His good and dutiful wife had refused to go since she regarded the whole idea as ludicrous, and threatened to rain on their parade by squealing to Greenpeace. After all, she argued, the father was not even Irish and had certainly never been to sea. Uncle James on the other hand insisted that everyone was entitled to at least one decent boat trip, and if there was to be a lust for reason then that would have to suffice. Uncle James had of course become a priest by now and was at one with the mystery. Sad to say that at the solemn moment Whisper inevitably got the wind direction wrong and instead of being buried at sea the father was absorbed into the organs and clothing of the stunned, but largely disinterested, observers. Even in death he remained a witless meddler as a part of the dead mans ashes reached the bridge causing a not unreasonable panic to locate the fire. The funeral degenerated into an orgy of complaint and outright panic. And when all seemed lost Uncle James leapt to a lifeboat and, from that elevated position, 18

delivered a moving homily which seemed to pacify everyone. As people stamped their feet and dusted themselves off Whisper's father was caused, like some ubiquitous sprite, to puff and splutter into the atmosphere like a Roman Candle. Since there had been only a few complaints of him getting up peoples noses this was already a considerable improvement on when he was alive. Fate had always been particularly irreverent in dealing with the family's aspirations to the sacred, and nothing was as sacred to his father as dignity; embodying as it does not only the pomp and ceremony of religion but also the mystery. The sole remaining worry for Whisper was that his father would return on some dark and sleepless night, to glow and hover above him, in the half-light, like a disaffected mobile in a child's bedroom. __________________ Back in the office the noise continued, and behind him Whisper could still hear the unstoppable screams of Chloe Street, the luckless cashier. Mr.Williams was being bandaged, about the head, by a friendly nurse, and shouted at, about the face, by an unfriendly policeman. For reasons he could not understand, Whisper continued to feel euphoric !

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Chapter Two
He appeared through the morning mist, stumbling up the gentle incline leading him to where the old Manor should be. The meadow grass was neatly cut and the earth was succulent to the tread of his bare feet. He was naked but didn't seem alert to that fact. And he was wet. Behind him the meadow fell away to a small wood, and beyond that a small but fast-flowing river. Ahead, as he rose towards the manicured gardens, he could see the smoke rising from the ashes of the once- imposing building, now tired, toothless, and bowed against the sky. And he watched, with no apparent surprise, as the sated fire gave itself up to the chill of the morning air. All of the essential elements seemed to be here, as he counted them off - earth, air, fire and water. In an instant - 'though time was moving very slowly - he was seized, not roughly, by men in uniform and led away. He made no comment, and barely responded to their urgent chatter. For their part, they seemed sensitive to his dislocation and a little nervous of his strangeness. While their questions sought to coax meaning from him, their strong arms steered him to a waiting car, and then on to warm room, and borrowed clothes, in a nearby police station. With each failure to draw any response from him he was passed up the line to a more senior officer. Slowly, through the simple process of time passing, he became acclimatised to his surroundings. He had, by now, secured the attentions of the most senior officer who sat across the table from him. The straightforward, simple questions; the direct approach, had continued to get no response. But the subtleties of technique and the fleeting insights were not available options to the policemen present. Dogged 20

determination to explore every avenue, repeatedly, was their prevailing strength. There clearly must have been an event, a life, a job, maybe a wife and inevitably more events and consequences ? "How would you describe yourself?" the Chief Inspector asked. ___________________________

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Chapter Two.2
It had not been an easy interview but Whisper thought that it had gone fairly well. Mr. Priestman, the Manager, appeared to accept his innocence but did make some rather distasteful remarks that were clearly the product of misinformation. Whisper, however, was on the defensive and considered it judicious to simply say nothing. After all Priestman was technically correct, the electric hand-drier in the mens toilets was not a fucking wanking machine. There was apparently some chance that the impressionable cashier might, some day, fully recover her wits but the doctors were not hopeful. They were frankly more concerned with her father who had suffered a sympathetic reaction which had robbed him of his entire vocabulary apart from the word "Bastards!" which he repeated over and over again. They considered it a medical first! They had clearly not seen the messenger, however, who was similarly bereft although he had also managed to salvage the word "Fucking". Unfortunately, he could not get the two words in the correct order and so was cursed with the appearance of a distracted prophet struggling to make sense of a vision that would not leave him; "Bastards Fucking!" Priestman fortunately considered casualties as a matter for the medics and not the Generals and so seemed to pass over the incident without further distraction. He was a hard man, but also a very devious one. Niaively, therefore, Whisper considered it a kind of reward when Mr.Priestman went on to tell him that he had chosen him for a special project. It was apparently a high-profile Project that carried with it some real chance of kudos. Indeed Mr.Priestman confided that he wasnt looking 22

forward to the delicate task of disappointing those of Whispers colleagues he had overlooked in allocating the Project. And, as Whisper later observed, such was the man's mastery that within minutes of imparting the sad tidings to these poor souls he had each of them rolling about in hysterical laughter. "And what exactly is this task?" asked the good and dutiful wife with the cynicism of one long since broken on the glittering Ferris wheel of phantom childbirth; a veritable fortune in gold coins rolling down worn and splintered inclines to land forever on the cracks between the numbers; marooned on the improbable edge. She was marooned on an improbable edge and had been for quite some time; teetering like a tightrope walker above a sea of gluttonous faces; swinging this way, then that way on a rippling belly of impulses. "I'm to have sole responsibility for the forthcoming visit of Lord Wellright, the junior Minister, no less!" The good wife was aghast, ashen and quivering. "Bastards!" she thought, and grabbed instinctively for the dagger she did not see before her. She bit her lip and choked back a tear as she looked upon her proud little husband, beaming and bobbing like a day-glo target in a NATO naval exercise. She had forever been aware that he had the guile of a Shetland pony but seeing it nakedly displayed was always unsettling. Wellright was a demon. She knew this Everybody knew this, and Whisper would have known it too had it not been for his good-natured indifference to the world and his unique inability to remember names, or people, or the relationship between the two. This particular shortcoming was also known to everybody else, which made Whisper both the best and the worst person for the job. On the fateful day Whisper would be struggling to remember just who the celebrated visitor was, let alone the numerous other visitees to whom he was to be presented. The 23

probability was that they would all meet each other several times, with different names each time, as in some cruel parlour game where no-one is quite sure who is in charge of the joke. The greater risk was that Wellright would bring with him an entourage, all expecting to retain their individual identities for the duration of the entire visit. Whispers disability demanded a very flexible attitude to one's persona. Even if Wellright were not a demon, the visit was doomed to difficulty. In the circumstances the prospects were daunting. Behind him, Whisper heard the good and dutiful wife weeping copiously and he braced himself for very strong onions. Wellright was a demon. Having survived two world wars he lost his eye at a charity jumble sale in Cheshire. His screams of pain and terror were largely ignored at the time by rummaging women who were wont to tutt daily at first-degree burns from chip pans and chilling cuts from bread knives. There was suppressed disgust at his whimpering and an efficient rush to prevent him bleeding on the bargains. Overall though disinterest reigned. It had been his own, elegant walking cane, held incautiously high, that had taken the anonymous nudge to pluck out the offending eye; a treacherous act made worse by the fact that the cane was not functional but merely an affectation. He was an unpopular man, however, and, given his irascible nature, there was little sympathy and most of his colleagues sided with the walking stick, deeming it a God-driven instrument of retribution. There had long been the view that the inanimates in his life would eventually rise up against him, much as they did with the sorcerer's apprentice. In consequence the incident became known in the corridors of Whitehall as "The cane Mutiny". And, in truth, any randomly-chosen bunch of God-fearing seamen would have chosen to follow the cane in preference to

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Wellright. Although, to be fair to both Wellright and the mutineers, it might have gone to a second ballot. Apart from the act of blind betrayal, the bitterest twist was that the injury left him immediately with reduced resources with which to recover the situation. With his one remaining eye weeping fitfully, and crimson with pain, he could only paw the ground desperately in the vain hope of landing fortuitously on the truant eye. He did have the single advantage that all of the bemused bystanders gave him room - as he lurched hither and thither like a man possessed of something horribly contagious; something decidedly biblical. And all the while he droned, "My eye! My eye!" .. which most people took to be some kind of Chinese mantra to help him temporarily escape the visible pain. Sadly it did not appear to work and all that Wellright took from the experience was a pathological hatred of women, bargains and any unnecessary affectations. It also left him with an occasional stammer which is the perfect detonator for a man with an irascible nature. The good and dutiful wife had ceased her sobbing and plopped before her husband a steaming plate of something. It was a well-rehearsed dish, full of mystery and suspense. Whisper hesitated to explore, and paused a short while, uncertain of an aroma that suggested a last-minute escape from putrefaction. Under the imposing gaze of his belaboured wife, however, he stilled his heart and began to eat. The good wife, content with the beginning, left him to it and departed to the kitchen with her sadness. The good wife had a profundity from which depths no-one could cry out to the Lordand hope to be heard; In space no-one can hear you scream. And she had been in space for quite some time; unfortunately, a space constructed by Escher and Magritte as a joint exercise on a Works Team Event; those disassociated, drug-free trips where nonsense and Blue Peter collaborate to capture 25

random dusts motes and construct them into the cliches; cliches that can then be declared insights. or simply commended for effort. And there was method in her madness, or madness in her method; pedaling too fast, or too slow, like an exhausted hamster on the wrong side of her glittering Ferris wheel. There had been just too many disappointments and, when she lifted her head, she could see only an immediate horizon of too many sharp mountains; silver like unforgiving steel; like the teeth of a thoughtless animal caught endlessly grinning around an insatiable, salivating tongue. She was not mad although, as a non-specific artist trapped in a mundane world, she was a little disaffected. Her notions were often radical and, like many artists, the distance between the idea and its execution was aways far too short for the practice of a prudent life. "You silly, little man." she sighed almost inaudibly, shedding some of the weight of her gloom. And for the rest of his life Whisper would still believe she had been talking to the cat. The next thing he remembered was the spiteful blurring of the ambulance siren and the discomfort of demons setting off fireworks in his stomach. He passed out and regained consciousness two days later in a hospital bed. He asked where his wife was and, although no-one would tell him, they appeared to admire him for asking. He inquired what had happened and, although no-one would tell him, they appeared impressed that he had survived it. All in all he was doing quite well in terms of respect, and as far as he knew, he hadn't done anything. For the lads down at the local Bridewell it had definitely been a first. They had had the murderer behind bars before the murderee had hit the floor. The loose ends in this case were particularly untidy but, if "gut feelings" were to hold any sway, the good wife was as guilty as the Knave of Hearts. And, amongst those subject to "gut 26

feelings", there was none more dyspeptic than Thumper Jenkins, the Inspector in charge of this case. There were few who could reach back into the mists of time to remember how he got his nickname but, of the few, Chief Superintendent "Bigwig" Applethwaite was one. Jenkins had confounded all of his friends back in 1951 when he joined the police force as a constable having just left Oxford University with a first class Honours degree in English, and two doubtful novels already published. It was difficult to imagine how a man with the disposition and manner of Oscar Wilde could confine himself within the blue serge of the policeman's lot, but confine himself he did; his erstwhile passion for the language temporarily rested. The mystery of his vocation continued with Jenkins' almost euphoric contentment, but took on a more sinister aspect with the appearance of two Japanese tourists who had been severely thumped for asking directions to Bluckingham Parrace. Applethwaite, who was training Jenkins at the time, reported being " .........profoundly shocked by a sudden and unnotified jab to the Oriental's left eye.......". A second blow was apparently destined to take out his right eye before Applethwaite managed to restrain Jenkins with a "......conventional knee in the groin from a pivoting position......". The incident was recorded as a momentary lapse and no further action was taken. Matters worsened, however, when he similarly thumped several Eastenders and a particularly inoffensive Egyptian, all of whom had unwittingly disfigured the language. The connection was not made until the fracas in the canteen when Jenkins asked young constable Mackay for the loan of a five pound note. The normally obliging young Scot was unfortunately broke and sought to apologise, "Sorry, Jemmy, I haven't got none!"

27

And for this casual double-negative he was mercilessly thumped, his bottom teeth being permanently damaged. Years later Mackay still protested, with a slight whistle, that he could not have obliged, "God knowssssss, I would have given him the whole bloody lot if I'd had any money but, honessst, I was pennilessssssssssssssss." For several days after the incident other policemen, finding themselves alone with Jenkins, contrived to offer him money or circle around him like matadors, tensed and ready to react. This naturally irritated Jenkins but if he got angry they simply offered him more money. Eventually the problem was resolved by Dr.Zimmer, a marvelously persistent psychiatrist, unfortunately of foreign extraction, who had to undergo a considerable amount of thumping in pursuit of the cure. The cure itself was inevitably a compromise in that it enabled Jenkins to distinguish between accidental and intentional abuses of the language, and allow the first to go unpunished. Further progress was not possible as Zimmer had to retire from the contest under medical advice to allow his wounds to heal. All of this, of course, was known only to a few, and some of those did not believe it. Jenkins had received the telephone call from the good and dutiful wife herself. She had waited just long enough for the poison to take effect before giving herself up. Efficient machinery swung into action and the police arrived at the house at exactly the same time as the ambulance. They did so at speed, and from the opposite directions. In consequence, some delay followed while repairs were made to the radiator and cooling system of the ambulance. Attention also had to be given to the right eye of the driver. The retina had apparently become detached when the driver of the police car hit him with a wheel brace following a failed discussion on relative competencies.

28

Jenkins made a mental note to reprimand his driver as soon as he was discharged from the hospital where, he imagined, medical equipment similar to that which had been improperly used to crack his skull might be enlisted to repair it.. Ironically, Thumper took a dim view of brawling on duty. In the comparative peace of the Roundwood household Jenkins refused a cup of tea generously offered by the lady poisoner, but fell headlong in love with her physique not that this had been offered as an alternative. He was edging towards trance when the piercing smell of something hardly edible limped from the kitchen like a coughing man escaping a fire. A sudden flood of sympathy for the poor, prostrate Whisper caused him to wince. The thought of what the noxious fumes might be doing to his own pipe-work thrust him back into conscious and executive action. "How could he eat something that smells like that?" he asked, incredulous, his eyes watering. "Like what?" asked the good wife in all innocence. It was a different world. "You callous bitch!" he snarled, dragging the body, too late, from the kitchen and yelling for the ambulance men who were loath to leave off their slanging match with the policemen outside. "............you and whose army?" shouted the first ambulance man over his shoulder as he came into the room and collected the body. With commendable efficiency they carried it out and, within seconds, the ambulance could be heard spluttering into life and speeding away; the abrupt sound of a house brick bouncing off its roof, and a gaggle of policemen jeering. At a more sedate pace Jenkins led away the good and dutiful wife. With her she carried a small suitcase in which she had thoughtfully packed a few items of clothing and oodles of simpering, silk lingerie in which she might 29

wilt mournfully in the distress of her selfless tragedy. She would have hoped for a chaise longue on which to drape her forgotten body but in anticipation of a starker reality she had taken to practicing similar, modified moves with a tubular steel chair she had found abandoned in the garage. The house was left in the hands of the forensic people who had sent back for protective clothing to insulate them against the pervading atmosphere which they judged to be radio-active. They were also concerned by the discovery of some bent and twisted cutlery which so far defied reasonable explanation. They were clearly unaware of the sheer, undisciplined power a man possesses when confronted with a blocked sink and a paucity of common sense, or appropriate tools. The uncertainty of scientists, however, always results in things being boxed off and sealed up, which is exactly what happened to the house. The contamination alert reached the police station in advance of Thumper and his prisoner. In consequence they were greeted like returning astronauts and stripped virtually to the bone before being returned to the interviewing room in borrowed dressing gowns. The good wife slouched in a dismal position over a badly-designed chair by the desk. Thumper perambulated about her in a quilted, maroon smoking jacket that dropped fully to the ground, completely disguising the movement of his legs and giving the consequent impression of a man radiocontrolled but tethered mystically to the centre of the room. "Do you want to tell me about it?" he said with, some returning compassion, as he gazed distantly skywards through a window set too high to afford any other aspect. "There's nothing to tell really." she sighed hopelessly, crumpled under the vague weight of it all. "Don't play games with me!" Thumper snarled as he wheeled upon her with unnotified anger and an excess of spitting. This was a particular failing caused by snarling too loudly and too quickly at the same time. The good wife 30

was taken aback but soon recovered enough to be calmly and decidedly shocked. Like most grown women she found games particularly irksome, and so it was with a dreadful awe she viewed the prospect of playing games with anyone; far less a saturnine Inspector with the disposition of a rickety, old roller-coaster. She had also noted that his articulation bore some of the qualities of a tropical rainstorm; the humid, sweaty odour. In response to the actual question, she simply made to catch her breath and teetered on the verge of sobbing. Thumper was, however, determined and would have pursued her further, but his mouth was now dry since all of his spit had gone. So he gave ground and allowed her to regain composure. In the quiet of a corner he opened and closed his mouth like a cat trying to loose a furball, and when the lubrication returned he called for tea. "I suppose it was inevitable from the start." she began, unprompted, distractedly laying her head on the table as if listening for the approach of stagecoaches. "I suppose that's why I chose him. It was that innate desire to protect the runt of the litter and, if that were not possible, to save him from himself. Either way, it was my destiny to rescue him." Thumper had himself been rescued on a number of occasions but never with such fatal consequences. It was a shoddy piece of destiny that provided a saviour of such doubtful mental stability. She craned herself up from the table and stalked across the room, spreading herself on the far wall like a mendicant awaiting a flogging. And then, as if with the rusty choreography of an old and practiced drama, she spasmed and twisted, dropping to the floor in the corner with all the controlled flamboyance of distracted introspection. Fitfully, but with measured timing, she told her sad but inevitable tale, of embarrassments piled upon embarrassments; of pitiful scorn and ridicule; of ignominy 31

and treachery; and, more desperately, of unmitigated disappointment - a barren and tortured life. From a distance she had always observed Whisper as the butt of everyone's jokes and immediately fell hopelessly in love with his helplessness. Close to, she learned to live with the capricious anarchy of his personal hygiene, and became addicted to its unforgiving ferocity. Like a demented wingforward she fielded tackle after tackle in the advance of her lover's disability, fearlessly bruising all those who attempted to look upon him unfavourably. Even at the wedding her bearing was more that of the bodyguard than the coy maiden. Down the full length of the aisle she perched high on Whisper's arm like a Texan riding shotgun, scouring the hushed faces in search of sneers or suppressed laughter. The pervasive power of this daunting aurora seemed to steel the fingers of the very organist His arrangement of "Here comes the Bride" implied a great deal more menace than celebration, discovering greater nuances of menace in every strangled semi-tone. Only Whisper beamed; a blind man nonchalantly striding through the nightmare of an unseen apocalypse. In the intervening years since the christening, the self same priest had now developed a tic in his good eye. This was a direct consequence of the overwork caused by the ineffectiveness of the weeping eye. But all of this history was unknown to the good wife who watched his interminable winking with growing irritation, suspecting that the saintly man was a mere philanderer. Such a weakness in a priest she found totally unacceptable, but that he should be "trying his hand" with the bride on her wedding day was the very abyss of optimism. For his part, the long suffering priest still remembered his earlier injury (from a much smaller version of Whisper) and displayed an unreasonable degree of concern to remain on the leeside of the bridegroom. This poorly controlled obsession led to 32

erratic manoeverings, and leanings towards the Bride, somewhat similar to an improvised Gavotte. In the event all of his clumsy shuffling earned him a swift and secret knee into the groin from the vigilant wife. She clearly judged it to be retribution for an aggregate of offences which include the earlier attempts at philandering, and anticipated any attempted gropings that might follow at the reception.. In a sulk, however, the priest refused to attend the celebratory dinner and limped away to the presbytery where he wept copiously with both eyes and pondered the possible pleasures and risks of Whisper's eventual requiem. Since neither the bride nor the bridegroom had any surviving parents all oratory at the reception fell to the best man. And, in the absence of any real close friends, that honour had fallen to the ubiquitous Uncles James - in his reincarnation as a priest. As a prince of the church he was of course incapable of lying, and found himself bereft of anything complimentary to say about his nephew. Equally he lacked the temerity to pass any comment whatsoever on the bride whom he suspected of having the power to wither; an insight that worried him since he considered that Whisper was ill-equipped to withstand any more withering. A less introverted man would have seen the impossibility of his position and fainted, but Uncle James was still burning with the fire of his vocation. And, like St.Paul remembering his awakening on the road to Damascus, he lurched towards the litany that had been so successful at the christening. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph......... There was a heathen pause as most people assumed he was reading the telegrams and surveyed the gathering in search of Galileans. Only the introduction of "God the father, God the son and God the Holy Ghost....." caused the light to dawn. The reverence continued interminably since Uncle James now knew lots more saints and pursued them with a vigour and a passion. Those who remembered the 33

christening prayed half-heartedly for farts but felt the familiar intoxication of the chant. Only the good wife at the uncle's side kept her head and, with clinical precision speared his right foot with her stilletto heel. The vaporised gasp of pain was interpreted by the assembled guests as divine ecstasy thus elevating Uncle James to the ranks of the holy trancendentals. Faced with benign denials from the good wife, Uncle James was left to convince himself that the hole in his foot was the beginnings of stigmata and looked forward to a future of pain and revelation. All of this was typically lost on Whisper who was subject to doctored drinks from his boisterous cousins which produced in him a degree of temporary paralysis, not unlike Lot's wife. And where other brides might have taken this badly the good wife seemed decidedly content, appearing to prefer her husband entirely rigid. Thumper Jenkins started to twitch. The full weight of it all caused his equilibrium to bow in the middle like something drenched and on the verge of permanent warp. He sensed he had lost control of the interrogation and, subtle though the theft had been, the good wife had stolen the initiative. Trailing in the wake of her remembered misfortunes he found himself ceaselessly buffeted by an unruly gaggle of conflicting emotions, ranging from pity to downright terror. Ultimately though, he was seriously unsettled by the casual way she reported the gross distortions of her desperate life. But, secretly, he suspected her of pleasure. In any event he made the decision to wrest back control before he sunk forever beneath the welter of her personal history. "I think we're getting a little way off the point here?" he suggested, and sat down with authority, only to suffer the insubordination of his dressing gown which simultaneously parted at the knees and thighs, gaping in the manner of a rather butch Lauren Bacall, and tempting fate. 34

The good wife could see the point quite clearly now and while she found it distasteful, an uncertain frisson crackled like tinder in the ebb of her belly fire. She sucked breath privately and drew her skin taut against the itch; a silkskinned reptile coiled in that familiar pause before the spring. "What I mean is.......er.....the issue is quite clear." he adjusted his dress, "Did you intend to poison your husband and, if so, had you planned it in advance, or was it on the spur of the moment?" Difficult to do the second without the first I would have thought?" she observed tartly, "Even the spur of any given moment is technically still in advance of that moment." "Yes, quite!" Thumper winced. He felt the familiar discomfort but remained calm. According to his own judgement, she was committing no indiscretions, she was being rather boisterous with the language and stretching its limbs against the normal persuasions of its muscles..but no actual indiscretions. The "spur of a moment" undoubtedly existed and described the understandable mystery of a spatial and temporal relationship on the precipice of a milli-second. But the words - "spur of the moment" - existed as an entity; together; like body and soul; co-joined for a specific meaning and understanding. It was an ugly dislocation to have one break away from the other and assume a separate relationship to it. And what had "technically" got to do with it ? That was patent nonsense in any perception of the idiom ! "What kind of fucking talk is that?!" he exploded out of control, "What is this fucking nonsense, you demented fucking pedant!" The good wife quivered at the lip and momentarily feared violence. In defence she widened her eyes into a very alert stare and glued their attention on every move the volcanic Inspector made. She constantly adjusted her 35

position to compensate for his every advance as he circled the room to generate the breeze that would cool his flaming rage. "I don't think you can talk to me like that, Inspector!" she said, regaining composure. Thumper could not answer. He heard the words only as distant sounds, totally without meaning. He was struggling to claw his way out of the crimson mists of his own suffocating anger; bleary-eyed from its choking, and breathless from his efforts. He slumped again unthinking onto his chair and splayed his legs; supine as a mongrel pleading for interference. The coy wife turned away and calmed the palpitations of her breast with the application of a hand placed soothingly about her throat. She toyed with the idea that, for Jenkins, this was a practiced technique of brainwashing and disorientation but doubted he was capable of such audacity. She lobbed a sneaking glance over her shoulder at the spent Inspector and wondered how soon the fire would rise again. Thumper thought he knew the answer to that but could not rely on it. His fuse had definitely got shorter with the advancing years and his control was far from what it had once been. "I apologise," he sighed eventually, "I don't know what came over me." He did not trust himself any more. "Perhaps it would be better if you arranged for a solicitor to come down ............someone to speak for you?" "What's wrong with the way I speak?" she challenged, remembering the original insult. "Nothing!" he leapt in, even more apologetic, "It's just a matter of procedure...........and jargon..........a solicitor knows all about that. I'm really just looking to your best interests." he spoke with a tiredness that betrayed the exhaustion of his excitement. "Procedure and jargon!" she spat out, with unexpected pique. "I'll give you jargon!" And, in a flourish, 36

she sat down opposite him, took up a pen and wrote a full and lurid confession. It would, of course, take a team of experts in Mental Disorders to disentangle the real meaning in the statement, but the substance was entirely accurate and in line with the known facts. The actual motive was destined to remain forever a mystery. The motive was of a singular and unrecognisable shape. It probably didnt look anything like a motive. And it was hidden somewhere in the uncultivated mess of brambles and weeds that made up the crippled skeleton of her life; a dark place where only the occasional shaft of jagged sunlight pierced the confusion like an accidental knife reflecting a sudden flash which may or may not be offering insight. Finishing the confession, she pushed it under Thumpers nose and strolled with unjustified triumph to the farthest part of the room. "Brewholder!" she said. "I beg your pardon?" he said, still stunned. "Get me Brewholder!"

37

Chapter Three
The psychiatrist was a very attractive woman, presenting the under-played confidence of 'knowing'; the badge of her trade. He himself remained contained in the same chair he had occupied from the outset. Across the desk from him, a varied stream of 'experts' had presented themselves, and their skills, in attempts to gain access; to loose the cap that was clinging to the jar with such comfortable defiance. The psychiatrist had inevitably armed herself with some soft-textured cloth to protect both herself, and the cap she was looking to screw. "Do you know who I am?" she said. "The sum of all your possibilities, I suspect maybe not just your own possibilities; maybe the sum of all possibilities." "I am a psychiatrist." She said, not wanting there to be any lack of clarity. He seemed to be a man who liked clarity. "Yes, they did tell me. 'Though, for some reason they preferred to refer to you only as a 'doctor' ". This was not going to be easy, she thought, especially since she detected no immediate indication of mental illness - just some eccentricity of adjustment and perspective which was not unusual in cases of trauma. "The Inspector tells me that you don't have a lawyer and that you are happy to proceed without one. I would strongly advise you to think long and hard about lawyers before discarding them 'though I am not implying that you are necessarily in trouble or in desperate need of one. That aside Mr. can we agree a name for you?" "Of course, as you wish." "Can I suggest that you choose?" 38

"Of course perhaps the obvious, Smith Mr.Smith." " would a first name allow us to be a little less formal ?" "Ah James" he said without any directing thought. "Fine." She said, "Do you find this helpful in any way?" "Only for you, I presume. Isn't that their purpose? I don't anticipate any need to refer to myself by name." "Quite! I understand, again from the Inspector, that you are now happy to talk about things but you're having some difficulty in verbalising, or is it remembering?" "I have no difficulty with the words," he said, in a matter-of-fact way, "or in articulating the words. And I have even less of a problem with the pictures. It's the relationship between the two that I find elusive, particularly if I try to use 'meaning' as a bridge." "Perhaps you're trying too hard?" The question wasn't meant to be patronising, but he adjusted immediately to the new register to which the discussion had shifted. "Once you've thrown the balls into the air, the expected option thereafter is to catch them again, in the same order. If you do not do this they will end up all over the floor, in no particular order. There's nothing at all wrong with this, of course, but it isn't "Juggling". It is something else - yet to be defined. We could hazard a definition but precedence and practice have provided us with little on which to surmise any possible rules that are applying here. Any definition would, therefore, be unreliable, but no more so than "Juggling" itself were one not trying hard enough." "Words can, quite properly, be that way their meaning" she sought to reassure and encourage him. 39

"Yes!" he agreed, "in the province of writers and poets, where 'meaning', in its mercurial form, presents many faces; offers many insights; reflects an infinity of possibilities; a quantum experience of reality. But when it comes to law and religion 'meaning' is rigidly carved out in bent and unnatural shapes that twist and turn backwards upon themselves - like fugitives in a meandering car chase!" She was aghast at the easy but strange fluidity of his articulation, and considered the possibility of some kind of disorder. But for the moment she steered a course back to shore. "Do you have any family, James? A wife, father, mother? Maybe a brother or a sister?" His own meagre understanding of his condition allowed him to be insulted by the question but, in matters of the mind, nothing should be taken for granted. "How would you describe yourself?" the psychiatrist persisted. ____________________________

40

Chapter three.2
It was Sunday. Dusty, in the creases of a yellowing room; a forgotten office; a small man sat crumpled behind the peaks of his desk, and the fixed gaze of his pince-nez. His shoulders overlooked him, and appeared to be poring over his words as they scratched forth from the limp of his pen. His free hand, realizing the gravity of the work, sought to point its direction with a white-fingered purpose as it ploughed an invisible furrow before the advance of the pen, like a mindless prophet with the gift of tongues. His hair was white above the ears and stood on tiptoe as if to peep incredulously at the threatening expanse of baldness; disturbed only by the irregular pulse of veins snaking like subterranean rivers to empty caverns. And time, always in service to tradition, had etched for him a skeletal frame to complement the Dickensian image. Inside a profusion of clothing his body appeared to be whispering away. Behind him, the Gothic windows arched like Gabriel's wings to his back; frosted glass like feathers. And burnished on the glass, the backs of backward letters made no sense but foreboding; Celtic incantations to ward off meaning. But to the world outside they laid their explicit claim - "Carbine, Copplethwaite and Brewholder, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths". A footnote declared that the firm had indeed been established but the years themselves had worn away the attempted boast, and now no-one knew for how long. In any event, the office was on the sixth floor and the window was too high. Few eyes turn skywards for justice these days. The fact that Sunday was a day of rest meant nothing to Brewholder. The fact that Monday would most certainly follow was, however, of great importance. 41

Beginnings were things to be anticipated while endings were illusions created by those who laughed at Columbus. Metaphors and jigsaws were the fabric of his obsession and only the very high-tensile words were his allies; the fragility of everything was his guiding insight. In these later years, however, the acquisition of wisdom and the abolition of the death penalty had caused a dimming of his earnestness, supplanted now by mere enthusiasm. He was old, and for old people, like very young children, enthusiasm tends to be a capricious beast. It simply comes and goes like bowel movements, though not necessarily related. His enthusiasm caused him to doodle and detail like a man with a plastic model and a permanent crick in his neck. Presumably because of his own proximity to it, he dealt these days almost exclusively with death and its leavings. And since Carbine and Copplethwaite had long since taken to their beds with incurable silting of the mind, he was left with the whole business in which to exercise his seventy-year old expertise. He was very spritely - in a sedentary kind of way. He had always refrained from strong drink although his wife had been an alcoholic for most of her life. She was eventually salvaged by a very young parish priest in her sixtieth year. It was indeed a remarkable cure which received deserved acclaim even in the national media. The power of the man was apparently sublime. And so she then eloped with him - he now having left the church, feeling his own powers had outgrown that ageing institution. The effect on Brewholder had been slight since the compensations of living with a drunk are few. And they become even fewer as age withers the body, and makes it less robust against the violence of the sporadic beatings. To Brewholder's only daughter, however, the experience was traumatic though it remains unclear whether it was the mothers cure or the divorce that caused her the greater problem. The sobering of the wife obviously 42

transfigured the mother, levelling the erratic emotional peaks; and producing a colder, twitching women. For the child who had known no other, the loss was as complete as if the mother had suddenly gone mad..or given herself over to some other addiction. It represented a significant fracture in the structure of her world; a seismic shift; like an accidental spillage on a jigsaw puzzle causes the pieces to rise up and wrestle, like siblings, to disassociate themselves. And so she too left her own husband and family to elope to a nunnery thereby redressing the demographic balance in the church. In this new existence the daughter spent her time collecting wild flowers and experiencing poorly-dubbed visions. Inevitably she died tragically while trying to levitate in a place far too dangerous for such unrestrained ecstasy. A verdict of suicide was not returned although a conclusion of accidental death still rankled with Brewholder. He had argued that the fatal risks attendant on the pursuit of transcendence were fully know and accepted by all mystics. Competing arguments were, however, able to cast serious doubt on the daughters status as a mystic. Her recorded visions were entirely peopled by characters from nursery rhymes dominated by The Big Bad Wolf who apparently spoke with a Texan drawl and had the sexual appetite of Rag, Tag and Bobtail. Brewholder spent much time and money, through the media, trying to make the case that she had been the victim of evil forces emanating from her mother's priest who had since allied his considerable power to black magic. The magician priest had apparently often expressed a vehement resentment of the daughter's over-dramatic involvement in her mother's affairs. The mother, being congenitally susceptible to anything, was persuaded by Brewholders eloquence and a chronic affinity with her own sense martyrdom. She refused to go on living with the murderer of her sainted 43

daughter and so left the mutating priest to join a travelling circus - on the understanding that she was entirely capable of growing a full beard and mustache. There were suspicions of a return to strong drink but no-one had the temerity to challenge a woman in grief. Her subsequent inability to grow the promised beard saw her immediate eviction from the menagerie whence she disappeared into alleyways and died that same year. The priest, having been much-maligned, was hounded by the media. Inevitably, in a world where he had come to follow the Dark path and shun the Light he became paranoid, believing the army of the Lord was seeking him out. So he crept away to the darkness of his magic, and vowed to avenge himself on the whole blessed family. And he was not a man to take his vows lightly . albeit repeatedly. To precis the lives of Brewholder's family in such a flippant manner might seem unjust but people do live their lives in this way. And Brewholder, having neither the time nor the capacity to involve himself in such imponderables, merely tried to forget, and ignore the persisting stench of Madeleine cakes every time he caught the whiff whisky on someones breath. Brewholder increasingly spent more and more time in his office and found fewer and fewer reasons to go home. It felt safer in the office; fewer ghosts; less contact with a life full of threat and danger. His office became his bed-sitting room. And his detached mansion on the outskirts of town was subject to terrible neglect and fell badly into disrepair not unlike his life - a source of substantial resentment. It was an inconsiderate waste to those in need. But they did not know the story, but even with that benefit they might still have weighed it woefully short of a justification. It was only a life. Brewholder was oblivious to such obscenities since he never occasioned sight of them. He rarely left his office. Forgetfulness was a 44

virtue he knew would be consummated in death. Beware the priest, he told himself at every unoccupied moment. With the permanent absence of Carbine and Copplethwaite he was able to monopolise the services of the one and only clerk, Mr.Smith. Mr.Smith was a docile young fellow in a tight-fitting black, mohair suit with all three buttons fastened. He worked with all the diligence of one who can see an inheritance but with the stupidity of one unable to assess its value. That the firm would pass onto him on Brewholder's death had been strongly intimated, but the fact that he was not qualified to continue the business remained hidden from him. For Mr.Smith the two facts existed, like all facts, in a void and he never saw the need to relate the two. So he continued to squeeze himself into the uncomfortable role allotted to him; pressed like an unspecified leaf in a forgotten book by a mediocre hack of the Nineteenth century. Interlopers, intruders and dissemblers were his first and last concerns. He pitched permanent camp at a desk in the outer office where he sat like a fat lady on a picnic stool keeping vigil over the seasonal sales; like a dog with three heads he was obedient. There were rules. Fearing the irrational malice and demonic powers of the vagabond priest, Brewholder insisted that no clergymen or anyone else displaying religious tendencies should ever be admitted to his office. Before admitting any callers Mr.Smith was to confront them with a large crucifix and ask them to renounce the devil and all his works. The effect of this was to deter most clients but it did attract a great number of eccentric, old ladies of considerable wealth and even greater moral fibre. They seemed to see Brewholder as a benign salvationist and his office as the last bastion of the high church. Indeed, one distinguished, old lady was convinced it was the very gates of Heaven itself and eventually referred to Smith as St.Peter. It was an unfortunate lapse since she was 45

immediately evicted on suspicion of religion which could indicate she was the priest's familiar. Whence the old dear felt herself condemned to everlasting Hell and wept her way through senility to eventual death. No-one knows where she went after that but one suspects she spends a continuing eternity loitering just outside the real Pearly Gates, debating whether or not to approach and risk the confusion of a second eviction. All in all it was a strangely ineffective system since anyone asked to renounce the devil invariably invokes God and thereby fails the second test. Religion is a cocktail of raw power and magic, in equal proportions. Once you have stepped in that treacle it is rare to escape without leaving something attached. And in his evictions, Mr.Smith was often a little more vigorous than was strictly necessary which caused some reciprocated violence which, in turn, only served to confirm further an evil nature stemming from an undoubted association with the devil. Like an inaccessible cove one could only get in when the tide was right, but the tide changed very quickly and very often it was the thrashing of one's own oars that seemed to cause the tide to change. Another rule was that whenever anyone entered the outer office their presence was to be notified to Brewholder by the ringing of a secret, electric bell. Having been thus notified Brewholder would hide until the "danger" was passed. For this purpose he had an oversized overcoat hanging on the back of the door into which he would climb. Predictably, it had been beyond their capacity to devise a signal to indicate "all clear" and so Brewholder often remained suspended in the overcoat for hours. It had occurred to Brewholder to introduce a second bell but realised that the first bell indicated that Smith was not alone and, therefore, any subsequent bell could emanate from the surviving stranger, having first transfixed the valiant sentry with sorcery. Consequently he remained hidden in the 46

overcoat until suffocation represented a greater threat than death by magic, or Mr.Smith wandered in aimlessly and noticed the absence. It was a further rule that Brewholder should not be disturbed between the hours of ten and eleven in the morning. This hour was given over to masturbation. Brewholder had long been impotent but did not wish to convey this piece of very personal information to Mr.Smith. So the accepted truth was that Brewholder masturbated between the hours of ten and eleven each morning and could not be disturbed. To make the pretence effective Brewholder was given to spending that hour sat by the door, grunting and puffing his way to a symphonic orgasm. Mr.Smith himself found the noise nauseating, but any clients who happened to call at this time found it downright disturbing. To be confronted with a crucifix and asked to renounce the devil against a backdrop of unearthly grunts served only to convince them that some diabolic ectoplasm was presently clawing at the inner walls of the office. It was a further conclusion they drew that Mr.Smith was apparently preparing them for the human sacrifice for which the foul beast was clearly gasping. With experience of these situations in mind Mr.Smith had also introduced a rule of his own - that hasty retreats should not be impeded. He was once bitten by a sobbing accountant, father of four, who having stumbled on the above scene attempted to leave without his umbrella. On Mondays Brewholder was not to be disturbed at all. For it was on Mondays that a solicitor of the street was brought up to him. Mr.Smith procured the necessary female and it behoved him to ensure that the same woman never came twice. In fact, by clever use of body paint and wigs, Mr.Smith's sister was able to simplify her brother's task and, at the same time, supplement her meagre nurse's salary. Her Monday work earned her five times her nursing

47

salary but nursing was a vocation, and besides, she was aware that Brewholder would not last forever. It fell to Miss Smith to present herself at 9.00 am prompt on Monday and stay until 5.00pm that evening during which time Mr.Smith had to ensure that Brewholder was not disturbed. The day was spent in a ceaseless stream of striptease by the girl at the mercy of Brewholder's record collection which spanned a commendable range of generations and styles; slow, fast, lingering and so on. Because of his impotence Brewholder was insatiable. And for Miss Smith it was a continual process of dressing and undressing with little pause. Needless to say, because of his sister's involvement Mr.Smith was fully aware of his master's impotence and so it was another rule that he should never disclose this fact, particularly to his master. There was, however, one feature of the arrangements that was unsatisfactory. Because of his generosity, and to prevent Mr.Smith from feeling morally superior, Brewholder insisted that after every session Mr.Smith should also take pleasure in the girl. Since Mr.Smith was allowed the privacy of his own outer office in which to take this pleasure it would have been possible for pretence to prevail. Unfortunately, it was a further, unwritten, rule that Brewholder would peep through the keyhole and watch the performance. For the Smiths the only rule that mattered was that money was its own saving grace. In any event, due to his frequent work with crucifixes, Mr.Smith was able to absolve the family of the sin of incest on the grounds of expediency. Considering all of these circumstances it is not surprising that business for the solicitor was almost nonexistent. In truth, it was non-existent. And so, when business did eventually arrive it was somewhat understandable that Mr.Smith quite forgot himself and burst in to disturb his master during the masturbatory hour. Seeing his master quietly grunting, arms akimbo, in a chair 48

by the door, his excitement expressed itself in the unaccustomed over-confidence of sarcasm. "I'm given to understand, sir," he said, "that the member is far more sensitive when actually removed from the trousers." "And how often do you masturbate?" retorted the master inquisitor. "Never!" retreated Mr.Smith, feeling a man in his position should not be engaging in such things. "Then your observation hardly has any substance, does it?" "But I've seen it done!" Smith listened to his own words with disbelief. "Are you a voyeur, Mr.Smith?" enquired Brewholder calmly, "I wont have voyeurs working for me!" "In films, sir!" "Dirty films, Mr.Smith? " "Educational films, sir!" pleaded Smith showing visible signs of desperation and giddiness from the chase. "One isn't taught masturbation, Mr.Smith. If it doesn't come naturally it's not likely to come at all." "Yes, sir." capitulated Mr.Smith, reflecting tacitly on the fact that in his experience the more unnatural it was the more likely he was to come ! There was a silence while Smith allowed the memory of his intrusion to fade away. Brewholder carried his chair to its proper place behind the desk and took up residence. "What is it anyway?" he grunted, with an irrational feeling of coitus interruptus. "Business!" beamed Mr.Smith as he dropped a luscious packet of documents onto the desk. He could hardly contain his excitement. "We've been retained to defend a poisoner!"

49

Brewholder's eyes lit up, almost in disbelief, as his fingers fidgeted to unfold the papers. To Mr.Smith he threw a scowl of rebuke. "Guilty already is she, Mr.Smith?" he said, pedantically. "No, of course not!" Smith sought to recover, "But them bastards down the nick have beat a confession out of her!" "Mr.Smith!" bellowed Brewholder, and then more quietly, "How many times do I have to tell you! It's 'those' bastards not 'them' bastards!" "Sorry, sir." "And policemen do not BEAT people up!" "With respect, sir, that hasn't never been my experience!" "Mr.Smith!" "Quite, sir." he capitulated, "Shall I get the brief case?" "No!" said Brewholder sharply, like a man emerging from a painful hangover, "There'll be some study first. I'll start on Monday.........as you were........Tuesday!" "Yes, sir." said Smith with real disappointment as he retired to the wings. "Tuesday, Mr.Smith!" _________________ It was Monday. It was a day of turnovers and abouts. Normal routines were neglected or ruthlessly violated and excitement abounded, childlike. Mr.Smith could see it dimly in the smoke of his master's eyes; refracted through spectacles like raw crystal. Rusty procedures attended like ghosts in the dull recesses; the fading attic of the old man's 50

head. Brewholder preyed upon the written word, hunched for the attack; hanging like an exhausted puppet from the ribbons of sun through the windows; safe at his desk. And Mr.Smith was distant like a man removed in binoculars; folded into a seat by the door. His shiny-suited knees were pressed together like the bones and eyes of a predator perched restless in the forest, and his hands were pressed like prayers between his thighs to prevent the flinch; the excited loss of control. He gazed to prey on Brewholder and on the excitement in his mind. It would take six days, Brewholder had said and today was the first day. On the first day............. Brewholder coughed and shook his head, and coughed, and shrugged his shoulders, and coughed, and continued to cough sporadically, as if translating the words he read into a strange Morse code of involuntary gestures. Mr.Smith, by the door, hung his head and leant back, and hung his head and leant forward, and hung his head again, as if attempting to tune in to a sympathetic wave-length. And these complementary gestures seemed to induce a mutual hypnosis which was described by the arcane silence that held the room. It was only a glance that Brewholder cast at the clock but, amidst so little of anything else, it was a bellowing command in Mr.Smith's ear. So he rose and left with the thunderous sound of the ticking undermining the quiet of his departing step. It was showtime for his sister, and his mission took him to the hospital. At the gatehouse he approached the porter sideways with familiar glance. The porter searched about him for observers before joining Mr.Smith, also sideways. Smith's expression was tight beneath a casual glaze. The porter displayed the mild concern of all men cast in unfamiliar roles and strange territory. But the overall performance was similar to the previous performance, and every other previous performance in which they danced

51

together in this peculiar fashion; the player and the old soldier. "G'day, Jacob." said Mr.Smith with a serious nod of his head. The porter merely acknowledged the greeting with a wink of his eye, not wishing to commit any violation of the incautious word. "Will any of the doctors see me if I enter in?" Mr.Smith asked, in this usual, unnatural manner, with his eyes very wide open. The porter winked more definitely, took Mr.Smith's forearm and, unseen, yanked him backwards into the safety of his office. With true military precision he opened another door and they disappeared through the broom cupboard. By way of various very empty corridors and storerooms they traced a path through the hospital and surfaced in the shrubbery beyond. With every secret step the porter sought to clarify his position in the affair. "Is there anything I can do?" he begged, but Mr.Smith solemnly shook his head without comment. "It's been months now!" insisted the porter,"Are you any closer?". Mr.Smith sought to quieten the incessant questioning but the old soldier would not rest and required a more positive role in the affair. Events had escalated well beyond Mr.Smith's control. As a casual diversion he had one day disclosed to the pestering porter that he was attached to M.I.7. In this way he had hoped to add stature to his importance and interest to his conversation on the occasions of his regular visits to the hospital to collect his sister. It also brought the advantage of enlisting the porter as a willing ally should he ever need one. His sister could, of course, have made her own way to Brewholder but he had to preserve the illusion of going in search of a woman, and the hospital was very close.

52

The porter had believed Mr.Smith largely because he had wanted to, and it was the only way he could account for Mr.Smith's absurdity of dress and manner. It all fitted so obviously. The ex-soldier had then applied his military intelligence to the situation and deduced that M.I.7's interest in the hospital could only be explained in terms of germ warfare. Mr.Smith felt compelled to concur and casually implicated a number of foreign doctors who subsequently became subject to accidental attack from an ever-apologetic porter. And it was while on one of his own independent spying missions that the porter heard a certain Dr.Karamazov advising a colleague that an unspecified Mr.Smith had only a small number of weeks left to live. From so little information he was able to construe that a "contract" was out on his own Mr.Smith, in consequence of which he had devised this elaborate, secret route for Smith's comings and goings. On hearing of her brother's grand charade Smith's sister demanded a role - as a Mata Hari type figure serving her country by seduction, rather like a politician. This afforded her the help of the conscripted porter, assisting her in the lustful pursuit of fresh blood to feed her appetite. And so it had continued increasingly out-of-control, with Smith now forced to carry a banana, fully loaded, prominently distorting the inside, chest pocket of his jacket. Mr.Smith feared that if the old man's imagination did not fail him soon then lives would be lost. Having reached the garden, he and the porter bobbed up and down behind the perimeter bushes, like clockwork rabbits in a travelling fair. Had they not already found themselves in the psychiatric wing they would most certainly have been collected and deposited there. They paused their unnecessary bobbing and the porter cast a long, serious, backward glance at Mr.Smith to indicate that he was thinking. But the thought clearly escaped him and he merely jerked his head to indicate that Mr.Smith should 53

follow as they made their way, on all fours, towards open territory. The thought returned to the porter just as his head broke the cover of the bush. He immediately leapt backwards, wrestling with the captured thought as a dolphin might with a fish, causing Smith, behind him, to rear up on his hind-knees and slump backwards into the mud. The porter hung above him, his nose almost touching, like an Alsatian dog waiting the prompter's whistle. There was a pause while the porter struggled to bring the thought under control, like a man with a newspaper in an unsympathetic wind. "How do I know you're straight?" he asked eventually. "What do you mean to imply?" asked Mr.Smith nervously, considering the indelicacy of their position. "How do I know you're not one of them?" The clarification offered no relief. "One of who ? " "The others!" "What others?" screamed Mr.Smith quietly. The porter raised his head and bobbed the bush to indicate that the "others" were "out there", with the germs. Privately he had often referred to them as "germans" and considered it highly amusing. Mr.Smith eventually understood and, being increasingly alarmed, thought about "coming clean" and revealing the whole charade. He could not, however, shake off the doubt that such a doubtful revelation at this stage would only identify him as one of the "others". And he might, inconsequence, fall bloody victim to the porter's careering patriotism. The porter was known to be a violent and irrational man. The resolution of this dilemma was entirely familiar - the plot would have to thicken. "Don't be silly," Mr.Smith said, "I'm British." "How do I know?" asked the porter, obviously pleased by the intelligence of his own persistence. 54

"My name is Smith!" Mr.Smith reasoned to the best of his very limited ability. "It could be a disguise." "What !!!" "A disguise.........Smitt, and so on....." "Name's aren't disguises" argued Mr.Smith with some frustration. "Why not?" "We have better things for disguises!" "What could be better for a disguise than something which in other circumstances would be considered inadequate to the purpose! "What !!!!" "What could be better for a disguise than.............." "Alright, alright! I heard you!" snapped Mr.Smith. He was starting to lose patience and, in truth, was becoming a little alarmed. There was a dangerous inverse ratio between his own waning interest and the porters escalating engagement in this alternate reality. He really couldnt afford to be so casual, but his imagination wasnt robust enough to support him. "We have foreign accents and things like that." "But you haven't got a foreign accent." "I'm not in disguise!" "Unless you are foreign.........." "Look ! I'm not foreign, and I'm not in disguise!" "Why aren't you in disguise?" "Because I don't need to be. The "others" don't know me." "How do you know they don't know you if you're not one of them?" the porter flourished. "Christ !!!" said Mr.Smith with a sag. There was another pause when inspiration would normally descend to resolve matters, but nothing and noone moved. The porter's patriotic resilience and muscular control would obviously enable him to hold this unnatural 55

position, without sound or movement, forever if necessary. Fortunately, however, resolution did come. The porter, being an old campaigner, suddenly realised that his position left him vulnerable from behind. Consequently he pulled back, allowing Mr.Smith to recover his knees, while he checked his rear. Mr.Smith was already visibly shaken by the ordeal when fate took a hand. Had Mr.Smith not been in such a nervous state it is unlikely that the car backfiring, beyond the perimeter fence, would have effected him in quite the way it did. To fall flat on his face in the mud, like death, was sufficient to cause a minor tremor in even the most stable of onlooking hearts. But to make an involuntary leap into the air before doing so - emitting a piteous fading gasp? It all lent a realism to the sudden death that only a cynic could doubt. And the old porter had no cynicism to afford death. His eyes rolled and he saw assassination from afar and bullets like trains; steaming through tunnels; whirring through bodies and churning out souls. He saw the smoke of discharge rising in the distance above the glint of sun, like fire, on disinterested steel; mechanical hands breaking the barrel in the shelter of brush; tidying; in bits now, the bite of the gun. And he saw the short-sighted rush towards the fallen dead, like a smokescreen, while behind in the distance he heard the brisk and confident stroll of a man going further into the opposite distance; going back to the cold of his unleashed fire. Such was the old man's absence of cynicism. Without a moment's pause in the process of his reasoning, the porter knew that Mr.Smith was dead. He also knew why he was dead. He had been assassinated to foil his highly-secret, undercover mission. It was equally apparent to him that the assassin was one of the four foreign doctors walking in different directions across the expanse of lawn before him. The absence of any visible weapon was not a problem for him. His impeccable reason dictated that the 56

murderer was the one furthest away, but his thirst for immediate revenge persuaded him that it was a conspiracy involving them all. The nearest would, therefore, be the first to feel the uncompromising force of jungle justice, which is an idle thing whose masters are economy and expediency. At his side his hands began to stiffen and curl as if with the heat of new blood. His face bulged with rage, as if the power building up inside him required movement quickly, to expend or dissipate it before possible explosion. Pinned in the mud, he swung his arms and head about him frantically in search of weapons. The effort failed to reduce the red of his face and eventually, quivering all over, he began to moan and hiss, as if out of control, building to an insane war cry. At this point the four doctors stopped on their various paths across the lawn to assess the strangely developing situation. The terrifying sound of the porters strangled cries caused Mr.Smith to suffer a relapse just as he was about to stir and possibly recover the situation. But the situation would not be recovered The porter had leapt forward and, grabbing a spear from the ruins of a wrought iron fence, he had charged forward like an arthritic duck towards the nearest doctor. His eyes continued to loll and roll like exhausted survivors in turbulent seas, which had the effect of mesmerising his quarry. The doctor was wellacclimatised to the mystery of the English sense of humour. He still hadnt got the joke when he found himself pinned to the ground through his chest. like moth in a prize collection; a fountain of blood but no screams. In the inexplicable silence that followed, Mr.Smith did in fact recover himself but was afraid to move. The porter, however, was quickly overtaken and taken captive by a legion of heavy-handed, male, nurses uttering expletives of disbelief, and irrational concern that any blame might attach to them; Oh God ! Christ ! 57

Nooooo! Jesus ! Fucking Bastard ! Through it all the porter just threw out a proud chest and smiled like a secret martyr, refusing to say a word. For the rest of his days the porter maintained the silence. He was questioned at length without success and, under drugs, he merely rambled on unintelligibly about M.I.7 and a mysterious Mr.Smith who apparently had appalling dress sense. He stoically accepted his padded cell, firm in the resolve that he would not cede to brainwashing. After the focus of the fuss had shifted elsewhere, Mr.Smith had extricated himself unseen from behind his bush, collected his sister and left without a single backward glance. He had seen enough but was in denial about most of it. He had been well aware of the porters eccentricity but reasoned that no-one could have anticipated this. It is a fine line between old age and outright madness. He remained safe in the knowledge, however, that he would never be convincingly implicated in any part of the incident. And guilt was an emotion too complex to concern Mr.Smith, or his sister, who remained largely unaware of her brother's direct involvement in the affair. She merely lamented the loss to her of the porter's invaluable assistance within the hospital. Back at the office Brewholder was dozing, blind to the encroachment of the devil and all his worksbut his time was increasingly nigh.

58

Chapter Four
Inevitably, he eventually found himself in Hospital; the second, in fact, in almost as many days. The first made a thorough investigation of his brain, using the full force of technology and big machines. No neurological cause could be found for is memory loss, nor was any physiological or other damage identified. He appeared to be healthy - in any average, normal sense that such an assessment implied. He made further advances there, both physically and mentally, but no significant recovery. And only a couple of futile days had passed before he found himself transferred to this very pleasant, cottage hospital that was situated in an idyllic, but unidentified, pastoral setting. He was installed in a room of his own which was neatly furnished in a minimalist style of pure, blazing white. The sun shone with an unembarrassed brilliance - 'though the trumpets blare was muted through linen curtains; gossamer against the glare. Mentally he was now fairly comfortable. His perspective was still set at a very broad angle but his perceptions could be microscopically detailed. And he zoomed between these two extremes with all the unpredictable grace of a circus clown on a rubber band. His comfort came from conversation - the particularly erratic flow of which now seemed to be accepted by all. For the staff, the imperative was to try to unlock the doors that closed off access to his recent history. The approach, however, had shifted to the 'long' game. The tactic appeared to be one of retaining possession of the ball, probing the defence and being alert to any opportunities that presented themselves. It was still 59

unclear, however, exactly what the game was - fox, pheasant, or even chess, maybe? A young nurse breezed in and across the room with a familiar greeting. Reaching to draw the curtains, she was momentarily held in the fiery eye of the leering sun that stripped away her white tunic. An unconsidered stiffening immediately reached out from his groin as she was revealed, almost naked, to his wakening. A tantalising montage of women's faces and names exploded like fireworks across his inner eye. He managed, however, to retain nothing of the detail, and the loss showed dramatically on his face. " half-glimpsed, by lightening, in a dream." He said in a mumble, announcing the loss to himself, and no-one else in particular. "Are you alright, Gabbler?" the nurse asked him, solicitously, sensing a possible opportunity. Gabbler was now the nickname they had chosen for him - principally because he had taken to gabbling. It was also even more amusing because the senior consultant was called Gobbler - but that was entirely because he was German, and that was his real name - or something very similar. "Fine!" said Gabbler, recovering himself, but not yet subduing the visible erection, a fact not lost on the beguiling nurse. Initially she had been unable to decipher a means of exploiting the circumstance, and seize the fleeting opportunity. Gabbler, she noticed, was fast re-establishing some degree of equilibrium so she returned to the window and again spread herself against the light - for the unexplained purpose of touching both curtains at the same time. This seemed to re-ignite his interest briefly and so, recognising a spluttering flame, the nurse pursued her impoverished imagination - to his bedside. There she improvised desperately, and contrived to spill his drinking water over herself and his bed. And, as if the water were 60

acid, she then stripped off her tunic, and reached for his groin - on the pretext of locating water damage. Sadly, she immediately felt him melt in her grasp and fall jerkily into a slow pool of sticky relief. At this point Gabbler's psychiatrist arrived in her crisp white coat, worn casually over a very smart business suit. It was as if the contrast was intentional. "I can explain." said the nurse, retrieving her tunic and heading towards the psychiatrist - to vouchsafe the offered explanation. "And you, Mr Gabbler, How are you?" said the psychiatrist, immediately offering a damper to the situation. "Relieved." He said. "Relieved that our dear nurse can explain what has happened, or ?" "For the moment just 'relieved'." he said. "If you wish to take a shower, Mr. Gabbler, I'll be back in a minute to sort out you're bed." The nurse fussed about him, resuming her responsibilities. She then looked to the psychiatrist, and they both adjourned to a private place. Gabbler himself adjourned to the required shower where he discovered that his thoughts were now subject to a mild infestation of ghosts. When he returned to his bed he found the Inspector waiting to see him. He remembered and recognised the face but little else - except a sense of threat. ___________________________________

61

Chapter Four.2
"I am a vampire. Of late, Whisper, I have been eating blood. The biology of the phenomenon confounds me but the experience is no longer nauseating. It is a distasteful sight that everyone here has grown to accept; it is the colour of the spectacle that will not be ignored. It no longer disturbs me to cough and then see my coughing fall about my chest like the prints of indiscriminate bullets. It no longer disturbs anyone; do you find that disturbing? I shall die with an excess of colour, but red has been cheapened by those who merely wish to draw attention to themselves." He was one helluva talker thought Whisper as he fidgeted noiselessly in the immobility of his hospital bed. He clearly had a right to talk since he was the longest serving patient on the ward, and desperately ill. He had apparently plummeted from a considerable height onto some wrought iron railings which impaled him through the stomach. The railings were unfortunately rusty and he had hung there for some time, like a bad boy waiting for a spanking. George, as he was called, was undoubtedly dying and this dire condition seemed to visit upon him an endless stream of insights which he articulated with unrestrained indulgence, and flamboyance. But, for all of this articulation, he never illuminated that darkness in which was hidden the secret of the place from which he made his plummet, nor the compelling reasons that led to the eventual plummet. And since it had been an "accident" of doubtful credit to the garrulous victim no-one had had the temerity to raise the question with him directly. "There was a man to my right, George continued, who slept by the door and he was dying faster than most. I remember the occasion well. During visiting time the other 62

day he screamed hysterically, loud and long, shaking his fists in the air until his whole body shook and his face turned purple with rage as he struggled to exorcise his sickness. The assembled visitors in the ward were ashen and disgusted. But his wife, brave woman, had the presence of mind to hit him; very hard across the face, which brought his ranting to a sudden halt. He gazed at her in abject disbelief for a few moments before sinking. Not too many days later he died, traditionally quiet and peaceful; a credit to his family and all who knew him; realising that to fight alone is nothing but self-indulgence; the comedy of pride, d'ye see ? Frightened men should always be observed from the safety of windows." For his part, Whisper was in awe of such fluent articulation but there is a limit to how long one can sustain a state of awe. It also awoke his slumbering doubts about paradise itself, and the sight of God, in which we are entitled to bask eternally. Knowing that any word repeated often enough loses its meaning, he considered eternity a numbing prospect. The process of salvation seemed almost self-consummating; paradise and penance rolled into one. Whisper was sufficiently pleased with the symmetry of this idea to attempt to express it, as his own contribution to the accumulating wisdom of the venerable George. He opted for the pithy, but hoped to capture George's declamatory style. "Heaven's a rum do!" he began but was immediately set upon. "Don't talk to me about Heaven!" sneered the prostrate sage, and Whisper didn't. But, having nothing else prepared, he could say nothing .. which gave the impression that he was wide-eyed for more wisdom. He remembered feeling justifiably peeved some time later as George gave himself licence to discourse on the very subject that he had just been denied.

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"A man came yesterday dressed like death, in black. He was a priest, or some other porter of a perfect faith. He is apparently a regular visitor. His face shone and I was immediately impressed by his complete cleanliness - which is, after all, close to Godliness. There was a controlled bounce in his step and a jolly confidence to his chatter. His eyes, however, were still preoccupied. With his hands clasped behind his back, he strolled through the ward with the Sister like the Lord of the Manor with his Estate Manager. As if on a Sunday stroll he exercised moot points in his mind as he wandered, contented, through his own strange gardens. His was a religion of death and our dying was, to him, our blooming. Am I coming to flower or going to seed, Whisper? "The priest was a joker and had words for everybody. He tried to raise spirits but he also had a considerable reputation for downing them, which is presumably why is face shone. When he laughed he laughed loud, so that his laughing filled the whole room; a demonstration of defiance, but with closet permission. He kept his hands in his pockets but rocked on his heels as he ducked and weaved in animated chatter. He was a young man already burdened with obsession. His brow furrowed and his neck pulsated like a blow toad as he fought to maintain an evenness of expression; choking back incautious words and instinctive sighs. He was concerned with neither questions nor answers, but faith; the comfort of his obsession; the sight of God. "It was no surprise when he came over to speak to me. He enquired of the circumstances that had brought me here and I dutifully related my story." "What exactly is that.........?" Whisper casually forayed. "He was clearly unimpressed with certain aspects and wrestled to steer a swerving course between admonition, solace, forgiveness, understanding and 64

encouragement. Needless to say, the impossible effort left his arms in knots and at least three of his tongues permanently paralysed. Although he wished to be rid of the moment his obsession insisted he should try to exorcise the apparent insanity of my behaviour." "What exactly....." Whisper tried again, even more casually. "The man in the next bed had some flowers beside him, but he was dying so I took one of the flowers and gave it to the priest advising him that I was not convinced of its beauty either, but that if he wished to decorate my dying he should at least wait until I was dead. The priest took the flower as if it were a gesture of peace. He told me to take strength and offered me some of his without really indicating that he could afford to lose any. He then continued on his way without losing the bounce in his step. If I could die that way I would perhaps be happy. "After he left me the priest was taken captive by an old man opposite who talked at him incessantly, with an urgency that betrayed panic. The priest was content to listen in silence, as God is reputed to do. From snatches I overheard, they appeared to be talking about the South Sea Bubble incident though my History isn't what it used to be. Since the old man had spent his whole life working in the City, his impending demise seemed to find expression in this equivalent catastrophe. The talk was avid and purple; its veins bracing and bulging. But the priest was calm and silent, enduring the steel grip of the man's hand on his. Slowly, and without magic, he brought the old man through his crisis, never having uttered a word. And, in the end, the old man fell back onto his pillow, exhausted and at peace; fully exorcised and expressing repeated thanks to the priest. The priest smiled benignly and patted the old man's hand as he rose and moved on. "As he left, walking quickly down the ward towards the door, he waved a flamboyant, presidential wave and 65

called on God to bless us all. It was then that the same old man in the bed opposite screamed out at him with a deafening cry to ask if there really was a God. We were all very naturally surprised, but on the face of the priest I swear I saw embarrassment. "All eyes turned to the priest and he appeared to stumble slightly, still smiling benignly. With a calming gesture he motioned to all of us to get back to the business of dying while he returned to the old man to impart secret words of reassurance. To add emphasis to their impact the ward Sister also gave the man a sedative. Once order had been restored the priest left, quickly, still smiling. If I could die like that I would perhaps be happy." "Where is the old man now?" asked Whisper, scanning the ominous vacancies. "What old man?" asked George disinterestedly and promptly went to sleep. It took several hours for the dissatisfaction to ferment before Whisper caught the turgid orator off guard, and almost got his name right. "You're a helluva talker, Gordon, but you do take a very black view of things. It's depressing enough being in here without all your morbid stuff. You're obviously a very clever man whose led an extremely interesting life so there must be lots of more cheerful things we could talk about. Even I've had my moments ! What d'ye say ? " "I can lie here and watch my life dripping away from me. I am the spent water from the tap lying dirty in the sink amongst the stains and the used hardware. I see smoke rising in the corner of the room; bronchitic flares defying rescue and taunting the choking devils within. I hear wheels squeaking with rude laughter as they trundle in the great tanks of speedy oxygen like red machines to the fire; grey machines, already soiled and mysteriously numbered; tubes to tubes; dust to dust; where the dying man is always the interloper in some strange mechanical orgasm; the switchbox; terminal." 66

And that was about it really. It wasn't entirely the response that Whisper had hoped for, but he knew he'd probably phrased the question badly. A derelict incompetence of expression was, after all, one of his "fortes". He would have looked to continue but he was interrupted by the mundane; a visitor called. The stranger loomed at his bedside. "Mr.Roundwood?" "Yes." "Jenkins. Inspector Jenkins." said Thumper Jenkins as he crouched and reached between his legs to pull up a chair. Since there was no chair in the near vicinity he appeared to be indulging in some ancient Maori greeting which a more alert man than Whisper would have felt obliged to acknowledge. Whisper, however, studiously looked the other way to evade the confusion that the Inspector's floundering obviously caused him. A chair was found and Jenkins settled into it. Eventually he discovered a position that allowed him vision above the line of the bed the height of which seemed to have been set from the Olympic Handbook on isometric bars. He half-heartedly threw an ineffective smile to reestablish contact. "I'm investigating the attempt on your life." he began, and immediately threw Whisper into further paroxysms of guilt and doubt. While he would concede that he did not demonstrate the energy or vigour of Ernest Hemmingway, he did feel that his life thus far had reached beyond the realms of an "attempt". And, in any case, he did not see how it could be a criminal offence. ".........A particularly unsuccessful attempt, one might add." Jenkins went on, intending humour but causing even greater insult to the recovering man who eyed him sideways. Such direct and harrowing honesty seemed markedly dangerous outside the confines of a psychiatric hospital, especially in such obviously untrained hands. 67

"Your wife has made a full confession." Treachery upon treachery! What had she told the Inspector? What avenues of escape had been left him? What could he say that might not be shown to be a downright lie? He thought of all the times he had been tentative or provocatively indecisive, and he became overwhelmed with all the possibilities of guilt. Had his incompetence really pushed his wife over the brink into insanity; and was that a crime? If she was insane, what credence could be given to her confession? In the comfort of that chink of light his breathing started to ease. "Can you really believe what she tells you?" He asked with intended ambiguity. "What do you mean?" "Oh God!" thought Whisper. Of all the questions to ask a man like him that was the very one! 'Meaning' for Whisper was the colander where he stored his water. "I think you know what I mean." Thumper could see that there was nothing wrong with the syntax but the sense of it still evaded him. It seemed to stall in mid-air and drop to the ground before it reached him like a shuttlecock hit too hard and too flat. He hadn't a clue why such a tame conversation should suddenly rear up and bite him on the nose, but he wasn't having it. Not by a fucking long chalk was he having it ! "Can we start again, Mr.Roundwood?" "If you like?" "Are you sure you're up to this?" "What do you mean?" said Whisper and Jenkins stifled a scream. "You're not on drugs or anything, are you?" Whisper looked at him again knowingly. The bastard was clearly determined to get him on something. Caution, mon vieux, caution!

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"I don't know how much of this has been kept from you because of your health, but you wife tried to poison you." "She appears to have succeeded." replied Whisper, unmoved. "Well, partly........" conceded Jenkins. Even Whisper could see that this was a moot point. The question as to whether one is poisoned or halfpoisoned has more to do with the powers of recovery of the victim than the intent of the poisoner. With an unexpected show of clarity of thought Whisper discerned that The Inspector had used the word "poison" to mean "kill by poison" which inaccuracy had allowed for the unnecessary debate. Blessed with so few insights of this calibre, he sought to celebrate by means of a full elucidation. As an Oxford, Honours graduate in English, Jenkins took the lesson with a commendable degree of concentration, never once blinking, or even asking questions, until the end. "What exactly is your fucking game?" he asked, dissipating his aggression through a knot in the bedspread which he squeezed with a vengeance until the moment passed. In fact, unbeknownst to him, the knot in the bedspread was not a knot but the sick man's knee which, thankfully, the sick man was not using, nor would use for some two days subsequently! Afraid to give vent to the pain Whisper held it deep within himself where, under pressure, it vaporised and then subsequently dribbled from his eyes as emotionless tears. This served to convince Jenkins of the man's instability since he assumed that the blubbering was a consequence of his sharp words. And, not being a heartless man, he felt not a little embarrassed by his intemperance. Caringly he rose to offer comfort, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. "Come, come, Mr.Roundwood............."

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But Mr.Roundwood thought he had come too far already. Still wincing from the first attack, on his knee, he was quick to anticipate the second and as Jenkins loomed over him he instinctively shied away, his eyes glued to the hand emerging from the pocket. Inappropriately glued as they were in the wrong direction, his eyes failed to give adequate warning of the angle-poise lamp that innocently waited to slice him just above the eyebrow. The metal shade sang out singly as at the "end of round one" and, momentarily, the sick man slumped to his pillow and bled. From the bored repose of their beds all eyes rested in quizzical wonder on the ensuing pantomime. The surprised and clumsy Inspector struggled incompetently to staunch the bleeding with his handkerchief. But since this operation, from some angles, had the appearance of attempted suffocation Jenkins continually sought to reassure the onlookers with backward glances wreathed in smiles. And it was as he turned in recovery from one such ghoulish grin that the metal lamp awaited him also. It was heard to sing out again as at the "end of round two". And round two ended, of course, with Jenkins temporarily slumped across the sick man and bleeding copiously from the upper right forehead. The Inspector was only out for a second and stirred to see a blank, slightly-startled expression looking down at him from the sick man. It was clear that Whisper was wrestling with the mystery of the savage cut on the policeman's forehead, half-hoping he had done it but already fearing the consequences. The Inspector dragged himself up and found the chair where he rested, and thought. Whisper's eyes never left him although he did not say a word. Jenkins was counting to ten but because of the intense pain in his head struggled to pass five, constantly dogged by the recurring desire to give in and go berserk! The blood trickled from his forehead and, blob by blob, dropped from his chin like skydivers to splatter on his lapel 70

- before sliding gracefully onto his shirt and tie. He lifted his face to the heavens, partly to halt the flow of blood and partly to seek the support and tolerance of the divine. Neither worked and so, with a tired thrust, he got to his feet and laid a baleful look on the immobile man lying in the bed. "Can I take it, Mr.Roundwood, that you would wish us to press charges against your wife for attempted murder?" "Yes, I think I would." he said, concerned to be in agreement with the Inspector's wishes, whatever they were! "Thank you, Mr.Roundwood. Good day." The Inspector finished as brightly and briskly as possible, promising to send someone along to take a statement. As he walked away he started to regain his composure and feel good again. He was proud of himself and his exhibition of self-control. This was good. On the other hand it was very unsatisfying. Without warning he turned and went back to the bed, politely asking Whisper for the return of his handkerchief. Whisper had clearly missed the episode with the handkerchief and so was at a loss to understand. "Here it is!" said the Inspector brightly leaning across the prostrate man to retrieve it. And, using the cover of the manoevre, boldly pumped his free elbow into Whisper's defenceless jaw. For all of his vigilance Whisper had failed to see it coming. When the nursing sister roused him several hours later he looked for sympathy but got only anger since he had apparently bled not only on the pillow but on the sheets too. He was at a loss to understand why he was not asked to account for his battered state, but he wasn't to know that the man in the opposite bed had already told the sister that he had been fighting with the police Inspector. Like the mother she was I real life, the nursing sister took a dim

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view of boys fighting and showed her displeasure by refusing to even mention it. With a scolding brusqueness she threw him from his bed to allow her access to the more important business of the soiled sheets. Of course, she wasn't to know about the additional injury to Whisper's knee and, because of his intermittent consciousness, he himself had clearly forgotten it. The truth of it, however, still remained and expressed itself with another falling-down trick in which Whisper managed to catch the hitherto uninjured eye on Jenkins' vacant chair. It was the first time ever that the whole ward had erupted into spontaneous and uncontrollable laughter. One minute he was up, and the next he was down! Even for Whisper three "knock-outs" in one day represented some kind of record.

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Chapter Five
Gabbler was presently considering his position. Was he indeed in Hospital or was he in fact, in jail ? It was a question of his circumstance and condition rather than the physical location. Increasingly, it didn't feel like Hospital, but only fleetingly did it feel like jail. Most of the time it felt like something else entirely. But what did he know of jail ? What, indeed, did he know of anything? Discussions with the nurse had left the psychiatrist appraised of her possible 'breakthrough' - Gabbler's reaction to sexual promise. It was not an area, however, in which the psychiatrist felt she had any appropriate expertise, and even less experience. She had sought clues in books ( predictably ) and films, but her understanding was largely cerebral. She had a very clear idea of what a Roller Coaster could do to a full stomach, but what she couldn't know is whether she would be able to control the eventual explosion of vomit - nor, indeed, did she realise that any such explosion would be unannounced. She sat in her chair beside the bed where she would normally sit. And she was dressed as she would normally be dressed. The concessions she had made to the experiment were subtle, and comprised a fairly-transparent shirt, together with stockings and suspenders, slightly disclosed at the edge of a skirt worn shorter than usual. Her lips were painted in an under-stated but simmering red, capturing all the heat of the sun but none of its glare. But her manner remained markedly measured as she assiduously tracked Gabbler's every reaction. "Are you married?" she asked. "I don't believe so." He replied, without any real indication of belief. Have you ever been married?" 73

"Not that I can remember." He said, without any real effort at remembering. "What about sex?" It was a question she had asked on numerous occasions in the past, and to many different people in a wide range of contexts. Perhaps she had never asked it quite so baldly before, and perhaps it had never quite sounded so much like an invitation before? And, certainly, this was the first time that a tiny bead of sweat had tickled its way down her back to the very base of her spine to nestle where she sat. Gabbler seemed to be shuffling through a selection of possible answers to her question. It was the first time she had observed him actually choosing a pathway from a range of alternatives! It was an intellectual intervention on his part that revealed a possible act of withholding; an awareness of secrets. Can you remember sex?" she pursued him carefully, gently, while he was still searching for the correct balance. Does your body remember sex? Does the thought excite you?" Every refinement of the question seemed to add more alternatives to the pack he was shuffling. The rhythm of his instinctive responses had stalled. The clarity of mind seemed to have momentarily deserted him and the psychiatrist was slowly undoing her shirt in a sensual, non-threatening way. It was an approach she had planned intellectually, but had still felt daunted by the actuality of the plan. But now, somehow, she seemed to have caught the surf just right, with the full support of nature, she road high, and breathless, on her swooping board like a warrior queen on the upraised arms of her adoring people. She persisted with the line of questioning, shaping the variations into a form of erotic charge. Gabbler was clearly struggling for controlover himself; over the returning ghostsover. Then, almost in disbelief at the paralysing intensity of his reaction, she slid her skirt to the floor only to find 74

herself careering into an unannounced, and unknown, ecstasy of her own. But as the door opened she managed to flop back into her chair, drawing her white coat discreetly about herself and kicking the discarded skirt under the bed. The police Inspector slowed in his approach as he took in the mystery on their faces. Both were speechless and displayed the exhausted glow of subjects emerging suddenly from a sance - or some other mystical experience. Fortunately the policeman did not have time for such strangeness. " We've found a body down by the river! We need your man to come and have a look!" he said, in an excited rush, immediately turning his attention to a search for Gabbler's clothes. The psychiatrist deferred to him, inconspicuously fastening her coat, and reflecting the policeman's words intense as it had been, did such a remote intimacy, now make Gabbler "her man". For his part, Gabbler wonders - if he is, in fact, in jail does this excursion outdoors offer him some chance of escape. _____________________________

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Chapter Five.2
Brewholder brought the candle from the briefcase and set it down centrally on the bare, wood table. It perched, like virtue, on a single gold candlestick; trim as an unqualified promise and svelte as the tongue in a kiss. The second candle was black and the good wife gasped. Like Joan of Arc, the good wife was dressed for torture but limited to voices. To date it had been only Thumper's voice she had heard, discounting the strangled moans of the tuneless drunk in the next cell. But now there were to be other voices; the voice of wisdom, from Brewholder and the familiar voice of insanity from Mr.Smith. For Mr.Smith it was love at first sight. He had recently been pitched into deep despair, reflecting on the eclipse of his ambitions and the capricious spite of a life that had just turned round and bit him. And these barely repressed feelings of anger and resentment now disposed him perfectly to admire the perverse virtue of the murderer sat opposite. Already entranced by the torpid flow of her sensuous body he watched her lips quiver, and part in the advance of the black candle, and he wavered out of control in the draught of her inaudible gasp. All of this, of course passed over Brewholder's head whose search through the briefcase had brought the reward of the relevant papers. Unaware of their impact, he merely returned the unexplained candles to his case and gathered himself for the interview. Like a dog who cannot understand why the bone is denied it, the good wife still rested her gaze on the discarded briefcase and pouted. Mr.Smith waited and plotted new plots. Brewholder introduced himself. "Do you know why I'm here, Mrs.Roundwood?" 76

"Ayesha!" snapped the good wife, correcting him. "Bless you!" said Mr.Smith, for which he received an immediate left jab to his middle eye, rocking him back in his chair and onto the floor. Brewholder screamed for the guards and pinned himself to the most distant wall, stepping rather brutally in the process on the prostrated Smith. Ayesha, the immortal Goddess, had not disturbed her own calm in administering the blow, and so when Thumper Jenkins broke in the craven disarray of the two grown men appeared to lack a cause. Fortunately Thumper was not a man to be distracted too long by the temporary absence of reason and he was quickly able to improvise a fitting circumstance. After all, he had himself questioned the good wife at some considerable length, over a period of days, and dogged her like a native as she gradually retreated into a half-remembered mythology. In fact, watching him enter the room, it had occurred to Brewholder that the Inspector bore the stoop of an ageing bushman, his noble back arched forward from years of dutiful labour. Smith, however, had recognised a man still recovering from a kick in the balls from the queen of the Amazons. For Brewholder it was the end of the interview and a complete rethink of tactics. For Thumper Jenkins it was business as usual. But for Mr.Smith it was love with a capital Hell! It was not the single bolt from the blue that had impaled him, but a heady concoction of vagabond circumstances that had conspired to unite towards its accidental purpose. As if following some old alchemical formula, all the ragged elements of his life suddenly fused together with the jerk of an unidentified impulse. And the sudden blow had been solid enough to be recognised as love - which condition was subsequently confirmed by regular bouts of nausea and occasional simpering. 77

He was vulnerable anyway. The murderous incident at the hospital had clearly left its mark, albeit invisibly, like some subterranean scar whose existence can only be intimated from the periodic surface tremors; an unprompted shiver suggesting internal collapse. The full horror of the events haunted him like the half-remembered indiscretions of a drunken night, and he lived daily with the implications, fearing consequential entanglements that might send him to prison - or worse. Whenever the memory revisited him, much as the mutilated corpse revisits the murderer, he shivered, like a jazz dancer with the blues. This new eccentricity clearly added another dimension to his daily exorcisms in the outer office. For the moment, however, he mooned. He softly fingered the broken skin just above the bridge of his nose, and mused about raw power and executive action. "Now could I do dark deeds the world would quake to look on!" he thought, but he knew, of course, that he couldn't. While he was so often overwhelmed by brooding and procrastination, here sat opposite was the avenging angel herself who was given to smiting the offending foe at the very moment of insult. It is true that her reading of the evidence was a little dyslexic, but judgement and execution were admirably expeditious. He made a mental note to explain at some stage the genuine misunderstanding in his "Bless you" remark, but he did not wish to reopen the subject just now. Brewholder gathered together his belongings, leaving behind on the table his foolscap notebook to which he directed Mr.Smith's attention. "Stay and run through these questions with Mrs........er......er....." he said, and make sure you make a full note of her answers. Smith took up the book and looked at the acrobatic scrawl that swung its uncertain way across the page. It appeared to be shorthand but Smith knew it wasn't. Even 78

after years in the old man's service he still had great difficulty in deciphering his handwriting. But to criticise a man's handwriting is almost as great a sin as to criticise his driving, and Smith lacked the temerity. "I think you'll find I've made full notes, so you shouldn't have any problem. And, for God's sake, don't improvise! If you get stuck just give me a ring." Smith just looked at the handwriting. Thumper and the good wife both looked at Smith as if intrigued at the prospect of some disastrous improvisation. Brewholder, agitated by events and impatient of his clerk's incompetence, bustled his way through the door without a backward glance. The mad woman had clearly forfeited any right to direct conversation with the traumatised solicitor who hoped never again to look into the pits of her eyes. Beware the Beast! said the good wife to Mr.Smith in bellowing Shakespearean tones with a knowing glance to his groin. And shuffling down the outside corridor at full speed, Brewholder caught the disembodied boom of her distant warning. Beware the Priest! he heard and paused, casting a backward glance over his shoulder to guess how far behind the chasing hordes might be. He raced back home to his office pursued by a cold sweat that was to remain with him for some time, if mostly hidden like the tears of the brave, little soldier. Of the three that remained in the room only Thumper appeared to be in a normal state of consciousness. Ayesha, the good wife; the legendary queen; conqueror of the eternal flame of time, sat perched like a dozing predator on the tip of some fluctuating reverie. Smith sat opposite her, temporarily stunned by the sudden burden of impossible responsibility, and drawn almost hypnotically to the myriad thoughts that bubbled up inside him to suggest love and escape! 79

"Can you give me a brief account of your history and background, Mrs.Rou.... Ayesha?" asked Mr.Smith, and Thumper headed for the door, having travelled this terrible road already once before. It began at the birth of the Amazonian rain forests and traveled through various subterranean caverns, and still-undiscovered temples, weaving a tortuous path through magic, incest, sacrifice, murder, orgy and more sacrifice, arriving eventually at a sculptured palace inside a volcano where the eternal flame was to be found. Apparently the ravages of time could be cauterized in this flame ensuring eternal youth; a process undergone by only herself and her chosen lovers. But given her sexual appetite and the length of time she had lived, traffic through the flame over the years was somewhere on a par with that of the London marathon. Smith asked where this legion of everlasting men were now.. "And women!" Ayesha added. Sweetly she declined to answer this question and, in truth, Smith had to concede it was of no particular relevance to her case. He was distracted anyway by the stirring in his loins as the full range of her sexual and sensual excesses was paraded before him. Obediently, he wrote it all down in Brewholder's book, in her own luscious and profane words. When she had finished he dragged himself back to Brewholders mangled script. "Why did you launder your hatband?" She looked at him quizzically and knew, for the first time, that she was in the presence of an equal. She hadn't a clue what he meant but instinctively knew it was part of some legend she had not yet visited. People spoke like this in some of the worlds she had been in. The words had a lyrical quality indicating a high caste of whatever civilisation he came from; possibly even royalty. She was stirred. "Have you been through the flame?" she whispered.

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Smith rather thought he hadn't, but by now he was quite prepared to give it a go. He had long since ceased to hear his own voice and didn't know what he had said, nor cared. He was captivated and his mind had already turned to thoughts of escape, for her; for him; and for the whole of time.

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Chapter Six
"So " said the psychiatrist. Gabbler felt displaced. He recognised the woman and, without reasonable cause, he trusted her. He mistook her sureness of purpose for confidence, but was himself armed with nothing to contest it. He felt displaced, and, for no discernible reason, he imagined a frightful circus - a circus where words and events would retain an anchor in the real world but fly about irrationally like threats in a dream. But he recognised the woman and, without reasonable cause, he trusted her. And trust is ever growing closer to "So?" said the psychiatrist. and behaviour! Choreography and movement, actions and consequences, statements and questions, all without obvious meaning or apparent relationship other than that being played out before one's very eyes. He felt displaced, but he also felt responsible - and, in some strange way, responsible also for the psychiatrist he had 'led' here. She, however, was confident and with a sureness of purpose. "So?" she repeated. "Brain and communications - in and out." he said, not intending to sound like a man suffering some kind of seizure. " I think I am being distracted by a doubtful brain." It still didn't make sense. "The brain just presents and we cannot presume a thoughtful process. It is for us to either discover or impose any meaning!" she suggested. But he didn't answer. Dressed in an unlikely suit and tie, he sat somewhat too comfortably in an easy chair back in his room. He was gazing out into the sunshine and the trees. Beside him the psychiatrist, sat in a matching 82

chair, was trying to read his mood; his expression; his lack of expression. As best as could be seen, she appeared to be dressed as normal - in her favoured, 'crisp chic' without any of the previous day's excesses. Only the lipstick remained, on purely aesthetic grounds - 'though clearly a different set of aesthetics ? - she had come to like it ( or, indeed, any other arrangement of the words). "Well?" she persisted, always gently, "Are you unable to talk about it? There's no responsibility to inject meaning." Again he didn't reply. His silence on this occasion, however, could not masquerade as memory problems, nor did he appear to be attempting such a charade. His demeanour seemed to be one of genuine thoughtfulness, and the psychiatrist could not rule out some mild traumatic effect. She could not rule out the possibility that this may have been the first dead body he had ever seen - at least, in the raw; outside of funereal situations. She could not presume malice or deceit on his part. That was the Inspector's job, and even he was finding it difficult to sustain any such presumptions. She knew nothing. She had been told nothing. She was entirely in the dark fortunately, for psychiatrists that was their normal place of occupation. So metaphorically she held out a helping hand, and in that instant, felt the connection was palpable but 'love' she imagined rarely ever was. "Would you prefer it if I came tomorrow?" she flushed immediately she asked the question. It felt like possession - the overall phrasing, the emphasis on the wrong word - she felt the heat of the devil in her; the warmth on her lips. She recognised immediately the confused interplay of different objectives nesting like Russian Dolls in her consciousness. "If I came back tomorrow? Would you prefer it if I came back tomorrow?"

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He turned towards her as if he were, at last, about to speak but she was already suffering a suffusion of heat spilling from somewhere at the very pit of her stomach. She had let slip 'the thought' and it was now spreading like a virus. Like lion-tamers; like exorcists; like hot-air balloons; all psychiatrists know that their safety can be suddenly compromised by the most subtle shifts of power; the distractions of doubt; or slightest suggestion of a prick. "Apparently it was a woman." He said, turning away from her to hide in the light from the window. "Apparently?" asked the psychiatrist, thankful for the deflection of his gaze. "I couldn't see properly." He continued, "It was difficult to look, and difficult to be too close. It was just a body face-down in the long grass, almost naked. " "Almost?" away from his gaze, she immediately contorted her face with embarrassment at her own question - the thoughtlessness, and the deep uncertainty that it may not have been thoughtless. "Just the merest remains of clothing." he replied, turning again towards her as if to confirm that that was, in fact, what she wanted to know. "How was she murdered?" she said, chasing towards more solid ground. "Did someone say she'd been murdered?" he asked with genuine alarm and surprise - matched only by the consequential alarm and surprise of the psychiatrist. ________________________

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Chapter Six.2
"My husband's dying - can I have a word with you?" said the attractive young lady. It was a dire pretext for a conversation, Whisper thought as he scanned the near horizon looking for a visible death. All around him everyone was immobile apart from the stream of visitors surging for the exits like sinners from the chapel. He stood by his bed, near the door, with his back to the prostrated sick and busied himself with the final adjustments to his own departure. He had been cured. His curing had been less in the manner of Lazarus and more in the manner of streaky bacon, but cured nevertheless. The clipped, female voice which virtually tapped him on the right shoulder arrested his attention, locking the wheels of his trundling mind and causing it to skid to a sudden stop. He feared she might be in search of the Maltese Falcon and that it would all end badly. He looked for a dying man to verify the young lady's credentials. "Last bed on the right." she said in a disengaged manner. The very last thing Whisper needed was a woman who could read his mind! But then again, he struggled to recall ever meeting one that couldn't. The man in the said bed clanked a lot, Whisper remembered. He was buried under a Heath Robinson contraption of tubes and metal, bottles and bags. The inverse ratio of skin and bone to its attendant hardware was always a firm indication of the proximity of death. "I'm sorry." he said, " What can I do?" "You can't do anything!" she replied bitterly. This was a harsh judgement, thought Whisper, only that very morning he had done a number of things pretty effectively. And only a few days ago he had committed his wife for trial on a charge of attempted murder. Demonstrating a further capacity for action, he picked up 85

his coat and his belongings, and headed for the door. The attractive young lady followed at his side. "It has nothing to do with my husband." she continued, " .......Not really, anyway. But it is because of the way my husband is that I understand how your father feels!" Whisper stopped and ran over her words again. The woman was either a spiritualist, or someone with a failing grasp on sanity. In either case, he realised she was trouble with a capital "T". "My father's been dead for ten years." "I knew you'd say that." maybe a psychic, then! thought Whisper - but he was more powerfully persuaded that the woman was probably several light-years adrift of the mother ship. Mad people unnerved him. All of his instincts urged him to weep like child, but he lacked the courage. Consequently he opted for plan B. He had only managed to run ten yards when a cynical tackle from behind sent him clattering along the parquet floor. He managed to stop his forward slide by wedging his head under the wheels of an oncoming trolley. He immediately reverted to plan "A". In an uneasy compromise with decorum he sobbed very quietly, but soon gave up under the disbelieving glare of the belching orderly who had been riding the trolley. "Soft prick!" It was a non-medical observation but, nevertheless, succinct and to the point. Whisper scrambled to his feet, praying he wasn't bleeding in public, and the attractive young lady bore down on him again with unconcerned satisfaction. "When I commit myself to something," she said with finality, "I commit myself." God knows, somebody should! - thought Whisper. "Shall we do it my way?" she asked, as if there actually was an alternative! In the street outside it was early evening. Without preamble or delay the young lady explained. 86

She introduced herself as Jane and told of her encounter with a most mysterious man at the hospital. In spite of the fact that whisper had no living family, this man managed to convince Jane that he was his brother. Furthermore, he had weaved a colourful yarn about Whisper's estrangement from the family some ten years ago following an awful dispute over money. The apparent consequence of this dispute was that Whisper had now blocked the whole family from his life. The strength of the story, however, lay in its ability to anticipate all of Whisper's objections and present explanations in advance. All his attempts at denial were, therefore, discredited immediately they were voiced. The upshot of all this was that Whispers fictitious father was now suffering a terminal illness and had only weeks to live. The fictious brother was on a mission to bring about a reconciliation before the old man's demise, and was searching for a sympathetic agent to effect this. A direct approach by himself would have been futile. And, as insane as he clearly was, the fictious brother was obviously an astute judge of character and a Master of plot. For, in the attractive young lady, he found not only a sympathetic interest but a missionary zeal that even he couldn't have hoped for. As Whisper slowly went down beneath the waves of her unyielding argument he only momentarily paused to imagine who it might be that would wish to go to such extraordinary lengths to persecute him. The only serviceable solution that he could muster was a nascent theory concerning his wife's possible involvement in some ancient death squad like the Thugees or the Chinese Triads. It was a doubtful theory in which even he had little faith. "Is my brother Chinese?" . No matter which way he posed the question, it still sounded like a parable from the bible. Jane ignored the question anyway, choosing to believe it was some family joke. Typically, he went with 87

the flow and hoped for future escape opportunities. She was, after all, a very attractive young lady. So soon out of hospital, and after such a ruthless psychological battering, Whisper pleaded weakness. He pleaded physical, mental and moral weakness. But, with the steel of the truly evangelical, Jane told him that now was not a time for weakness. She had, apparently, been given the address of the estranged father and was intent on delivering him into the bosom of his family - as she insisted on calling it. Whisper had long since realised that the inevitable debacle to follow offered the only prospect of resolution since he didn't believe the charade could have been extended to a whole family of other people. Confidently she led him into an area he had never been into before. It was a big, old, terraced house with a flight of twelve stone steps leading up to the door in grand style. It had fallen badly into disrepair and its curtains were ragged like the skirts of an abandoned child so recently disappointed and left shoeless in the gutter. The door was scarred and bruised from too much unanswered knocking. The paint curled and bastard growths attacked the walls like marauding orcs; sinister, shapeless things of invisible movement, like disease. The air about it was stale and almost suffocating. It would be a gross understatement to say that Whisper felt uncomfortable, but to say more would lend a sharpness to his fear that wasn't there. He lacked that degree of imagination. Being naturally reserved, he hated visiting other people's houses, especially those of strangers. And now he found himself not only visiting strangers, but about to be introduced to those very strangers as their prodigal son! The attractive young lady was not, however, to be disappointed. They paused outside and gazed at the threat before them. Even the attractive young lady seemed nervous, but 88

boldly she climbed the steps and hammered at the door. For some minutes there was no reply. Then the light in the hall flickered into life and peeped out lazily through the window over the door like the jaundiced eye of some indoor sickness; warm and yellowing. It was a natural reaction for both Jane and Whisper to step back, distancing themselves from whatever was to come as the door opened. "Yes?" said Mrs.Street, with a lazy eye and extravagant red hair. She was a woman of about fifty-five years of age who had spent many of those years in the apron she now wore. Her general appearance was shabby although her blazing red hair was expertly coiffured. Her face was normal and folded in all the right places, but one of her eyes was "lazy" and consequently sought to sabotage the normality of her appearance. She was a woman who mothered cats and was distracted by dust. She was generally ashamed, and hated strangers. "Yes?" she said, with a lazy eye and extravagant red hair. "Mrs.Street?" enquired the attractive young lady with manufactured confidence. The name was familiar but predictably Whisper did not know why. It did occur to him, horrifically, that maybe this was his own long-forgotten surname. He doubted it but having once entertained the notion he started to have misgivings about "Roundwood" which did, after all, sound like a made-up name. The more he thought about it the more familiar the name seemed but he still could not follow the thought to a conclusion. The attractive young lady had insisted, in her received account of events, that it was his name; a name that he had changed subsequent to the quarrel. His head ached. "Yes?" repeated Mrs.Street with growing suspicion. "You don't know me," the attractive young lady stammered, glancing round at Whisper as if distracted by the absence of any recognition on the "mother's" part. 89

".......I'm a friend of your son, Brian. And this is..........." she turned to present Whisper but it was in vain as Mrs.Street had ceased to listen after the mention of Brian's name, but merely motioned them to come in. She led the way into the front room, Whisper following Jane with an expression of blank confidence as they passed through the various drippings of the cavernous hall; stained walls, broken chairs and discarded objects. Somewhere in the bowels of the kitchen a dog barked, ravenously. "Some friends to see you, Brian!" said Mrs.Street as she led them into the living room. Both were lost for words. In the recess by the bay window a bed lay in waiting. Around the room were the normal articles of furniture. Mrs.Street took up a position in a straight-backed chair by the sideboard and observed quietly. Pulled close to the roaring fire was a low, comfortable three-piece suite of gay flowers and tobacco stains. From the ceiling hung a naked lightbulb and on the table food festered under the taunts of flies. In one of the armchairs by the fire, and in front of the bed, sat a man of about twenty-five years of age with a tomato red face and a half-moon grin. His appearance too was normal apart from a "lazy" eye which appeared to be a family trait. On his knee he had a long curved sabre which he was busily cleaning. Whisper had a premonition, and Brian grinned at them benignly and greeted them as friends. The attractive young lady, however, was forced to concede that there was not the slightest glimmer of recognition from the supposed father who was clearly much younger than the fictitious brother she had earlier met, and the fictitious son who was stood beside her! The awful truth dawned on her immediately. She had foolishly become embroiled in some horrible practical joke and was unclear as to how to get out of it without causing offence. She looked to Whisper in the manner of a

90

silent apology, and then applied herself to the task of leaving. "I'm sorry," she began, "but, you see, there's been a terrible mistake. What has happened is..............." She launched into a lengthy explanation to which neither Mrs. nor Master Street paid the slightest attention. "And so......." she concluded, "we must apologise for this intrusion and hope we haven't disturbed you too much." There was no response. After a misplaced pause the attractive young lady shuffled Whisper to the door. "We'll leave you in peace! Sorry to have troubled you! " "Mistake, you say?" said Brian eventually. "Yes, that's right!" said Jane, still edging to the door. "I made a mistake once." said Brian, thoughtfully. "You must stay and have some tea." "Thank you, but no!" replied the young lady, "We really must go. It would be nice to stop but we really haven't the time." The red in Brian's face deepened and, in the certain knowledge of his premonition, Whisper returned the young lady to the room and accepted the offer of tea. "Good!" said Brian, softly, but no-one moved to make the tea. "I made a mistake once," continued Brian, polishing his sabre, "but it's alright now." "Good." comforted the young lady, appreciating that the man was far from normal. "Do you paint?" he asked. "No." said Whisper as he looked to lapse into daydream which was his usual method of escape in times of stress and abject panic. He wrestled with the problem of conceiving ways to convey silently to the madman that he was not "with" the troublesome young lady. The consequences was a series of facial contortions so 91

grotesque that they went unnoticed in a house full of grotesques. "I paint!" declared Brian. "Good." comforted the young lady, sounding more and more like Lady Macbeth trying to remember where she left the dagger that she had so recently seen before her. The thought now occurred to her that their arrival had clearly been expected, in spite of being complete strangers. She was impressed with the unbelievable competence of the fictitious brother's plotting. "Were you expecting friends this evening?" she enquired. "We did not know when," explained Brian, "but your coming was foretold." "Really?" coaxed Lady Macbeth, "How was that?" "The letter!" said Brian reverently, with another voice. "The letter!" echoed his mother with equal reverence, as if drawn into some half-forgotten litany. "The letter?" "The letter." mother and son repeated with increased reverence, raising their eyes upward to settle, together, on a spot on the wall where a buff envelope in a duff frame bore the family name and address. Whisper recalled that every town had its "loonies". In his day it had been Gloria Joe who had stalked the town at an uncomfortable pace, without shoes, singing snippets from The Messiah and hissing profanities at children! He roused from his reverie. "Do you know Gloria Joe?" he asked with genuine curiosity, amazed at his own ability to recall and associate so distant a name. For his trouble he received a sharp kick on the shins from the attractive young lady who was concerned that Brian might object to being called Joe, and dreaded to think who Gloria might be !

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"Do you get many letters?" the young lady continued, looking to tease out information as one might do in a parlour game. "There's only one letter!" pronounced Brian. "And who is the letter from?" "From me." Brian continued, into the middle distance. "You sent it to yourself?" "I didn't send it." "Then who sent it?" "I don't know!" "But you wrote it?" "I can't write." "If you didn't write the letter, and you didn't send it, how do you know it's from you?" "It was signed with my name." The lack of any writing skills is often accompanied by an equal lack of reading skills but Jane was unwilling to meander down that labyrinth. Whisper, for his part, was quite convinced that it was Colonel Mustard with the lead pipe in the stinking kitchen, but doubted the young lady would go along with him! Jane had clearly been drawn in and, for her pains, was curiously puzzled. "You don't understand, do you?" Brian said. Now this was definitely a far trickier question than it appeared. Whisper did not know the answer but guessed that the only safe one would be very difficult to find. At his side, he suspected that the attractive young lady was girding herself for some real, no-nonsense .. have-somecommon-sensemotherly..enough-of-this-silliness ... straight talking. And he knew that that was definitely not the right answer. But Brian continued. "You are uneasyuncomfortable. You who are the prophet of your own absence. You who are chosen to be the subject object; You feel you are unequipped and unprepared. Although you prefer to believe in your heathen 93

fibs you are confined in your even ribs ! But you are the waters of turbulent indifference and you will be scarred on the immutable rocks, in the surf of you frenzied ignorance; you will be cleansed by the scouring of hands deep into the foulness of your body; and the sickness will be retched from you by dripping fistfuls until you are empty of idle abuses and purposes. And then you will be filled with the glory of complete absence; of light and air in coloured balloons, to drift you unwillingly too high, until your vomiting leaves you breathless and silent in the explosion of your internal organs. And then, pieces." Not a lot of help there, then, thought Whisper ! Brian gently clasped his hands before him on his knee and sat quietly gazing into the fire. His mother did likewise, from a distance, nodding as if in agreement. She knew. The words had been good; with fire and resonance; colour. But she feared that the guests were not of the faith, and were tied by the bounds of meaning. She feared that there had been another mistake. She feared that this would upset Brian who would, in turn, upset everyone. Whisper had no doubts that there had been a bloody mistake, and he just feared! "We are in something of a rush," said the young lady, lapsing into the giddiness of Ophelia spilling flowers like an apprentice waiter. "......So if you are making tea.........?" Brian gave her a look that sought to pin her to the floor with pencil-sharp quills flighted softly from a distance. Her confidence was lost and she faded into silence, looking in vain to Whisper for support. Whisper had no support. "You have probably realised by now that I am not normal." Brian continued after a while, "I sit here. I have not been out of this house since my seventh birthday." Whisper and the young lady looked to his mother for confirmation. 94

"He has never been out of this house since his seventh birthday." she said. "What happened?" Whisper heard Ophelia ask. "It was a mistake!" said his mother, "I can't confine him all of the time! We all have lapses." She lapsed into silence. "So!............." said Brian, dwelling on the word until all attention had been returned to him. "In my lifetime I have left this house only once and that was a mistake!........... So!........." He dwelt on the word again simply because he had enjoyed the previous dwelling, "So........when life is brought to me in this house, I am loath to let it go!" "Understandable!" said Whisper, lost in the logic of empathy, "But........." "I kill people!" said Brian Game, set and match, thought Whisper, and farted quietly in a Bossa Nova rhythm he had no control over. He paused to reflect. He had certainly come a long way from cat's piss and simple degradation. This was big league stuff! Beside him, Ophelia gasped inaudibly and rolled her eyes to embrace the tragedy, listing pathetically towards a swoon. She thought she could smell death in the air, and wasn't to know that it was only Whisper's body failing him again. "He doesn't!" said his mother, with some caution, hoping to stem the flow of fear, ".......But he does cut things off!" "Things?" asked the young lady, casually blocking the flow of foul air into her nose. "Things!" confirmed the mother, she herself stifling a choking cough. "Things!" said Brian, chuckling, with an elaborate flourish of the sabre. Things had definitely gone too far for Whisper. Admittedly there was a large element of fear, but Whisper 95

was genuinely embarrassed about what he was doing to the atmosphere. Because of the fear, he had only uncertain hopes of ever regaining control of his effluence. The attractive young lady needed no such debate to arrive at the same conclusion. Things had gone too far. It was not the ill-defined threat of Brian's outbursts that concerned her now but the long tin bath that had, for the first time, crept into her vision. The bath was full to the brim with cigarette ash and, as the draught strummed its belly, the ash quivered and coughed, like sickness at sea. It was very unpleasant. Distracted by these thoughts, it came as a complete surprise to her to find Whisper's hand in hers and to hear him proffer polite but firm farewells, edging her towards the door. On the other hand, it came as no surprise whatsoever when they came to an abrupt stop at the door where Brian's sabre had come to rest in the splintered wood! "I'll cut you!" he raged at Whisper from the sudden distance of a nose and a short head. They retreated and took refuge in silence; waiting. And waiting is like watching but with your eyes closed. It was some time before anyone moved or spoke until mother roused from her own private reverie and rose to her feet. "Well," she said in an assuredly bored voice, like all tired mothers, "now that we've got that over with I'll go and make some tea." She left and Brian smiled, removing his sword from the door and returning to the centre of the room where he faced his guests. "I shall paint you." he said to the attractive young lady as he sliced open her coat with his sword. Whisper did not move. "And if you move.................." "I wont move!" said Whisper, almost anticipating the question. With several sweeping strokes of his sword Brian then reduced the young lady's coat to shreds on the 96

floor. Like Joan of Arc she braced herself against the sway while Whisper continued not to move. "I wouldn't worry if I were you!" said his mother returning to the room and taking up her former position, "He's very good with that sword; an expert! He never makes a mistake." There was a pause, "There wont be any tea. I haven't any matches!" "I've got a match." offered Joan of Arc, without a flicker of irony. "Neither a borrower nor a lender be!" said the mother. "You can have them......as a gift! I don't want them back!" persisted the French saint, but was immediately quieted by the prick of Brian's sword at her throat. "What do you take us for?" he enquired with real venom, "Do you think that I am somehow backward native red on the banks of a lost, infected history that you can buy me with the magic firesticks. Do you see my eyes roll at the promise of whisky, or my knees shake at the coughings of thunder! I warn you to be very careful!" All were hushed, and in the awesome silence only a little bubble of fear escaped Whisper's desperate control. The mother stifled a groan and reached for the wherewithal to protect her battered sinuses, while Brian wheeled upon Whisper misinterpreting the outburst as comment. "And you!" he said, "......into the bath!" Whisper paused for a second out of genuine misunderstanding but confirmation quickly came and he submerged himself in the billowing cigarette ash. A man less used to degradation and foul odours would have suffered more, but even for Whisper it was a decidedly distasteful exercise. "That is the remains of many friends." Brian declaimed, "for years they came and deposited their cigarette ash in my bath, as they talked with arrogance and insensitivity about where they were; alleging that they were on one end of the cigarette but demonstrating that they 97

were really being deposited from the other, as they burned their dull flame and gave off their foul odour - like decay!" "Yes!" said Whisper, feeling he ought to at least attempt understanding. When he had settled, he was a given a candle to hold by Brian which was then lit. "Light to the dark!" said Brian reverently, "And life to the grave!" He looked solemnly at Whisper who was clearly uncomfortable, "Do you fear infection?" "Well, it can't be too healthy!" "It....." said Brian with emphasis, " .....is dead! It is beyond disease and concern." "Yes!" said Whisper, conceding willingly. He felt the hot wax dripping from the candle onto his fingers and fought to control the inexplicable urge to exclaim, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Brian returned with his sword to the young lady who had been somewhat heartened by the mother's assurances that he was unlikely to harm her, accidentally. She drew comfort also from the fact that her situation was so dire that weeping or worrying was not going to improve it. But she took greatest comfort from the sight of the spineless bastard in the bath whose fate seemed far worse than her own. Like an ageing ringmaster at a strange cobbled circus, Brian paraded himself about the young lady picking at her clothes with his sword. Slowly, and with great flourishes of harmless skill, he etched away at her clothing. And as he did so he eyed her and circled her as would any great artist molding beauty, or chaos. "I like to paint." he told her as he worked, "I have an obsession for women; the poetry of their naked form and the humour of the clothes they must use to cover it." The exhibition was truly astounding. No piece of cloth that fell to the floor was larger than six square inches and he maintained a flow that was always fast and fluid, without pause. His dexterity was breathtaking. It was the 98

final cut that cleared the initial layer of Janes clothes and revealed the most beguiling of underwear, and the most perfect of forms. But Brian froze like a man who has seen God, or the devil. His sword reached out to point to her lower, left abdomen and his face blazed and bulged into purple. "A flaw!" he screamed, somewhat unreasonably, and turned his face away clutching at his mouth as if about to be sick. "My appendix scar..........." the young lady panicked to explain, fearing he might try to cut out the flaw. But Brian was not interested in any further explanation and she was lost for further words. "A flaw!" he screamed and, reaching the orgasm of his discomfort, regurgitated that afternoon's tripe and onions all over the sword he had spent the evening polishing. His eyes bulged and as the second salvo came forth he started to cry, screaming at his mother to remove his bright sword from the nasty sickness that he himself could not bear to touch. The third and fourth salvos fell on the deaf ears of the dog who had just arrived from the kitchen to investigate the rumpus, and now howled its own disapproval at the deposit of spent tripe dripping from its head. The mother raised her eyes to heaven before girding herself and moving in to lend a helping hand. The dog bit the hand that sought to help it and, in consequence, received the sharp end of a foot buried deep into its blunt end. The dog yelped and instinctively leapt at Brian for protection. Brian, fearing the dog had rediscovered its savage instincts, maneuvered to avoid its attack, and stepped heavily into the slimy deposit that had settled on the floor. The slime could not support his weight and, inevitably, he slipped, throwing his legs into the air and dealing his mother a hefty blow on the rump as she leant forward to restrain the delinquent dog. Taken by surprise, the mother sought defence and smacked 99

her son on the head with the flat of a shovel that had leapt into her hand as the dog landed in the hearth scattering the utensils hither and thither. Brian screamed and sobbed intermittently while battle escalated between his mother and the fugitive dog who was finding it impossible to escape from the skatingrink rug. It was at this stage that the policeman rushed in to investigate the disturbance and promptly rushed out again, fearing ectoplasm and possession, only to return minutes later with a borrowed crucifix which he swept before him like a mine detector. And it must have been his transparent nervousness that the dog recognised as fear, and opportunity. In an attempt to switch the emphasis of the attack away from himself, the dog made a lurch for the policeman and so drew him irretrievably into the melee; his whistle gurgling towards swansong. The whistle, however, started another game as Whisper leapt from the bath with a fanfare of ash and, in one continuous movement, cleared the open door. Behind him he dragged the semi-naked, increasingly-attractive young lady. She resisted and indicated she was hardly dressed for outdoors but was quickly persuaded into the fresh air by a further expression of fear from Whisper's bowels. "Your jacket?" she begged. "It's dirty!" replied Whisper with his own twisted perception of chivalry and concern for the sensitivities of her feminine ways. With a jolt they left, as the lightbulb crashed to the floor in an explosion of uncontained grief. Outside there was a small crowd arched round the doorway, gazing steadfastly into the noise. "Give her room!" shouted Whisper, ".......Let the girl be sick!" and the crowd parted in an instant, arched like bullfighters against the casual sight or splash of vomit. They made their breathless getaway along the street and, since only she knew where they were, the attractive 100

young lady led the way. This was a little unfortunate since it appeared, for all the world, that Whisper was chasing her, half-naked, through the darkened town. And that is probably why the respectable, old gentleman tripped him with his umbrella and sent him sprawling into an isolated pocket of yesterday's rain. "Idiot!" the young lady cursed the old man, helping Whisper to his feet. "Whore!" retorted the old man, striding off into the distance, very quickly, fearing that the perversion might be contagious. Meanwhile the headlong escape continued. In her eagerness to put some distance between herself and the mad house the young lady devoted an excess of thought to speed and insufficient to direction. She headed for the park where she thought the dark and the relative privacy might give them time to gather their wits. However, as she made the next right turn she found herself skirting a large bunch of healthy males just recently evicted from the local pub where they had enjoyed a full evening of intestinal abuse. It was her speed alone that carried her clear of their astounded glances. For Whisper, who rounded the corner a few seconds later, the impact was jarring. His eyes hiccupped and his feet assumed a new vigour that carried him clear too. Because of the excess of alcohol, it was a generous pause later before the men realised what they had seen. And, again because of the alcohol, they did not attempt to explain or understand it, but threw themselves straight into it. With a resounding "Tally Ho!" they galloped off in a chase decorated with raucous laughter and coarse comments. One of the bunch, having once been a professional athlete, sorely felt the constrictions of his clothes. The sensual caress of the extending muscles, the rythmic beat of the heart and the flow of German lager all combined to heighten his waking fantasy, as he remembered the cheering crowds of his prime. Unprompted by any 101

compensating reality, he tore off his clothes as he ran showering them in his wake. His comrades cheered in a fit of amazement and admiration. It was probably the adulation that he had received that caused others to seek similar plaudits by shedding their clothes, until few remained clothed. And, naturally, feeling now rather conspicuous, those few then took off their clothes. For Whisper who was now being chased by a dozen drunken, naked men the situation was increasingly uncomfortable. For the old man stood on his doorstep who watched the procession through the smoke of his pipe as he took in the evening air, the situation was increasingly profitable. He quietly collected all the discarded clothing. The attractive young lady wept in frustration as she led the parade away from the park realising that this recent development made that the worst place to be. Unlikely noises billowed down streets, alleyways and hidings as Jane led them all a merry dance. It was a dance that became livelier and merrier as the sound of a distant police siren swooped down upon them from the distance. The sight of so many naked drunks, in such a tight bunch, transfixed the police. This momentary distraction allowed Whisper and Jane to spurt on and evade arrest, disappearing into the shiftless distance. Various spokesmen for the rank and file drunks attempted explanations to the gathered constabulary who were unprepared for the outlandish allegations being made. A naked young lady was apparently being pursued by the ghost of a rapist who was the colour of dust and was returning to dust as he ran, trailing bits of himself in his wake; clouds of phosphorous with an ungodly smell like the bowels of hell itself. "On a white horse was she?" said the laughing policman, although he was vaguely distracted by the nauseous whiff still lingering in the air. "No!" they protested, "She was running.........on her feet!" 102

All manner of attempts were made to get across their point but the police, now comfortably outnumbering the shivering drunks, refused to take them seriously. t was eventual frustration that caused the most articulate of the drunken spokesmen to "come clean". He admitted that a visiting Arabian businessman had called at the local inn and sold them all a magic suit of clothes each, and since they had clearly been sorely misled they were scouring the streets in search of the heathen devil. And it was with real malice that a policeman took exception to this casual piece of sarcasm and dealt the wit a tingling blow before the other members. This brutal attack on one so small brought howls of drunken disapproval, culminating in reprisals, the consequence of which were far-reaching and painful. Within minutes there was a full scale brawl in the street attracting a small but enthusiastic crowd. The diversion presented ideal cover for Whisper and Jane to pick their delicate way, unseen, through the shadows and the streets now full of returning people. There was no discussion or comment as the young lady led Whisper round innumerable corners and down endless alleyways, no longer running, but bumping and dragging; punctured and panting. There was dizziness in the relief presented by the ensuing calm; the hysteria of the fast-fading past; a headiness from the spinning of the chase; a floating that smeared and blurred the shape of time; a busy fatigue that was breathless and speechless. And, eventually, there was a back gate in a terrace of back gates through which the young lady was disappearing. Whisper followed, as he had followed for most of the evening, but she stood in his way. "I live here." she said, lapsing into Greta Garbo. The fatigue had numbed Whisper's mind, but in any case, he had ever been incapable of dealing with the ambiguities of a Swedish inflection, but his instincts made 103

demands; were seduced by the desire for comfort; for ease; the very reassurance of touch. His eyes fell upon her like hands, grubby and eager, like a child's. "My husband is dying." Again the Swedish actress appeared to be struggling with the language, as if she had found the wrong page in her phrase book. It seems impossible to be sultry while shivering, but the young lady managed it. And then, because she was cold, she left. Whisper grunted "Good night!" and shrugged his shoulders because he was too tired to bother further; too tired to move. But make no mistake, Whisper was in love. His own wife was not, in fact, dying. She was dead, and had probably been dead for several years. It was only the attempted murder that had brought it to Whispers attention. With the remarkable powers he had for deleting things, he had deleted her in the instance that he was made aware of what had actually happened. The deletion was complete and utter, leaving only a yawning gap on his hard disk that yearned for replacement. And on his wifes part, she had long since understood this and, without any intended malice whatsoever, she wished her attempt had been successful. She may not have deleted him, but she had released him which had been her purpose. Had a bright, new love presented itself as an alternative for him earlier, she would not have pursued the more drastic course that she did. So capricious are the fates they will always conspire to encourage any offered madness.

104

Chapter Seven
His escape from the sickbed appeared to be permanent, but his escape from the room had not yet been secured. While he was not actually under arrest or in Police custody he was undoubtedly contained in the Hospital, and in the room. If he had been sectioned he was unaware of it. But that may possibly be the case with many people who have been sectioned. Whatever condition he was deemed to have, or to whatever degree he was judged to be unstable or delusional, it did not stop the police from continually returning to question him. Other times he just sat in his armchair and surfed the breathless slopes of sunshine. Can you be sure that you did not know the young woman?" The Chief Inspector asked, in yet another rephrasing of the same question; every new slant more perilous than the one before. "I can be certain that I didn't recognise the young woman." He replied, "And if you were able to prove that she was in fact my sister it wouldn't alter the fact that I didn't recognise her." "Your sister ?" It was a clarification sought without enthusiasm as the Chief Inspector could already guess the probable answer. "I don't believe I have a sister, Inspector. It was hypothetical." "I know that it is particularly difficult in this case, but was there nothing about the woman that was remotely familiara hint or a glimmer of something?" The dying swan maybe, Gabbler wondered, crumpled in Swan Lake; the arc of a dancer? But then, perhaps not ballet - more like Jazz; the slow, sensual snake of the body; the slither, and the all-but-naked decadence; despoiled against nature by Jazz? He felt, for the 105

first time, some emotion, bile bubbling briefly at the back of his throat, and recognised it as mainly anger. "Was there nothing about the woman that was remotely familiara hint or a glimmer of something ?" the Inspector repeated. "The context was strikingly unfamiliar. I think I would be unlikely to recognise anyone I knew if I came across them in such a strange and distressed predicament." "So it is possible that you could have know the woman. The problem is one of recognition rather than knowledge." "I cannot possibly say or knowunless it is demonstrated to me that I did know the woman. For the moment I can only say that I do not recognise her and, therefore, must assume that I don't know her." "There remains the terrible coincidence, however, that it appears very likely that you both shared the same locationroughly at the same time and, roughly, in somewhat similar manner of dress roughly. And, for very different reasons, neither of you appear able to recall what happened?" "Did something happen?" the Gabbler asked dispassionately. "Always the wrong question!" the Chief Inspector observed as he left, seeming to tow a curtain of shadow in his wake as the sun momentarily slipped slowly behind a single, errant cloud. _______________________

106

Chapter Seven.2
With the flickering judgement of the senile, Brewholder viewed his most recent commission with unreasonable optimism but was decidedly apprehensive about the physical risks; the potential for violence considering these to be the province of younger men. While the good wife had undoubtedly been threatening, the degree of paranoia being expressed by Brewholder seemed wildly disproportionate. His demeanour was edgy and his determination not to leave the security of his office was hardening by the day. He had clearly had intimations of some kind of threat which he took seriously and, considering these to be the province of younger men, he conjured up from nowhere a small but muscular new partner. Through whatever process there had been, and it had been entirely invisible to Mr.Smith, Brewholder had found a singular, young man of surviving physique and no apparent fear; a man who could start immediately. And Jazz Overton-Williams was indeed the most singular of prospective partners. He brought with him the doubtful advantage of two surnames but this hardly made up for the deafening absence of a credible first name - the blame for which he put down to his parent's particularly vulgar brand of eccentricity. His embarrassment, however, proved an unnecessary indulgence since Brewholder was entirely taken with the name, redolent as it was of the smoke-filled memories of his youth. He had, in fact, been a "cool cat" himself once, digging every vagabond sound that tinkled or farted from any number of unadopted cellars. At the peak of his legal prowess, when his colleagues were looking towards Politics, he had "split, man", in the direction of bohemia. Recent jousts with the Nazis hordes in the cockpits of Europe had left him decidedly unsettled, 107

and with an unquenchable thirst for the anarchy and adventure of jerky music. In the giddy afterglow of survival he discovered a very catholic kind of lust and embraced it with all the delicacy of a drunk relieving himself at the roadside. Overton-Williams was a different breed altogether. He had money for brains, evidenced by the lifeless quality about the eyes. There the connections had clearly been severed by great wads of the folding stuff packed inside his head to give it shape. And from the way he spoke he obviously had a mouthful of loose change. He had a twang like sheet metal suggesting that some of his casing had worn loose, and a laugh that required the involvement of all of his head. He dressed like an advertising man and drank like a French Romantic which meant that he could appear to believe any arrant nonsense. He might be one of the few remaining men who would still accept the gift of a hundred-foot, Greek horse, even though there isn't a domestic garden in the land that could cope with that much shit!. But then again, he might not. One of the man's more endearing features, however, was that he lacked the wherewithal to conceal his failings. Confronted with his mistakes, he would simply utter an apologetic - "Oh dear!" and swing. Swinging was an activity that involved only his arms which tossed about nervously, and at random, to no useful purpose. He had learnt that, over time, his bosses developed some embarrassment at scolding such a willing penitent, and eventually they would turn elsewhere for a more robust whipping boy. Overton-Williams had already measured Mr.Smith for this role. Mr.Smith, in turn, had long seen the whip coming. Mr.Smith thought of blackmail. It had been so quick. Almost overnight this partner had arrived as if by magic; from nowhere. He had sought from brewholder the why and the wherefore of this major change but whereas a 108

solicitor may often speak to a clerk, when there are two solicitors they will always speak to each other. Mr.Smith felt severely disadvantaged. He thought of using his sister to blackmail Brewholder to get rid of the usurper, but there were problems. The old man was so deaf and daft it could take months to get the sense of the threat across to him. By that time it could be too late. He could accuse the new boy of religion - God knows, he drank enough! But he was unlikely to sustain that allegation since he suspected Brewholder already knew a lot more about the man than he had chosen to reveal. The more he turned the problem over in his mind the more the solution evaded him. Deep in this kind of introspection, his thoughts often returned to the hospital porter, causing him to twitch soulfully; involuntarily. And yet, from the ruins of the porter's madness, he still salvaged a grain of affection and a glimmer of respect. "Where is he now, when he is most needed?" he sighed. The office occupied by Overton-Williams was that previously occupied by Mr.Carbine, and adjoined Brewholder's. Mr.Smith's office was an anti-room to both offices and all had connecting doors. Although Mr.Smith had asked him, Brewholder had steadfastly refused to explain how their complicated system of alarms would work in the new circumstances. The immediate inference that Mr.Smith's drew from this was that Overton-Williams was not to be included, and so he excluded him from absolutely everything, refusing even to acknowledge his existence. Strangely this appeared to suit Overton-Williams who preferred to move in the shadows and welcomed a degree of anonymity. The reason was not apparent but all he appeared to want of the firm was the umbrella of convenience and a place from which to do business. The prospect of the firm actually requiring something of him

109

was a question which he never seemed to be even considered. Never had three men so closely bound by circumstance been so badly misconnected. And, of the three, Mr.Smith was the most profoundly unsettled. It was their first Monday together that brought some degree of resolution. All were busy at their respective labours as Mr.Smith's sister arrived and admitted herself, with a wink, into Brewholder's office. Since the unscheduled slaughter of the previous week Mr.Smith had kept a safe distance from the hospital. And his sister had covered the situation by explaining to Brewholder that, via new technology, call girls were now ordered by telephone. The very mention of new technology was sufficient to blur Brewholder's understanding and he enquired no further. With no adjustments to security in place to accommodate the much-changed arrangements it was clear that existing procedures offered Brewholder insufficient protection. Neither could Mr.Smith remember whether he had told his sister about the new partner, Overton-Williams. He was certain though that the new partner had been told nothing of his sister; her several and elusive identities; and her functions. For his part, Mr.Smith did not care. With the niggardly smile of someone who can see trouble looming but knows he is blameless, he settled back to listen to the music and the grunting. In the quiet of his office Overton-Williams lay back in a great leather swivel chair and tried to put to sleep the nightmares that had been plaguing him for the past few months. The method he used to achieve this was ever the same and involved strong drink, sipped slowly. As he rested his eyes against the morning glare he thought he heard a brassy kind of music that reminded him distantly of striptease. It seemed to drift in on the still air with a persistence that roused him from his seat, but not from his purpose. He took two stiff jolts of whisky and weaved a 110

steadying path to the connecting door with Brewholder's office. Not being a man to be given pause by idle thoughts, he was satisfied the music was real and so he reached for the knob. His awareness being heightened by excitement, Brewholder heard the first touch on the knob and leapt, like a salmon, into the hiding of the overcoat hanging, familiarly, on the back of the door. Mr.Smith's sister was bemused but not overly disturbed by this new twist since she was well-used to the eccentricities of the old man. When Overton-Williams surveyed the scene on entering, however, he was somewhat taken aback. Why this should have been so is not quite clear. If one enters a room in search of striptease, one should hardly be surprised to then find it. He was momentarily confused by the apparent absence of Brewholder but then allowed himself to believe that this was quite proper in the circumstances. He assumed that this was part of some private arrangement that Brewholder had with the girl who was clearly a struggling artiste. He was, at least, half right. Smith's sister, on the other hand, was a much faster thinker than the drunken boy and, given the precedents, assumed him to be part of some new game. Brewholder watched breathlessly as she led the boy into the dance and caressed the clothes from his body, sensuously shedding her own clothes at the same time. She held him by his growing inclination and led him, simpering, to the desk where she sprawled on her back like the goddess of some fevered dream. Whoever would deny the awesome power of a woman with the knowledge of that power. Outside in the anti-room the smile on Mr.Smith's face had narrowed into a pout of concentration. Try as he might, he could no longer hear the fretful grunting of Brewholder's abortive masturbation. The last sound he heard was the resounding thud of something bouncing off 111

the other side of the door. His first thought had been of a heart attack, but the persistence of the music argued against this. His sister was indeed a perfectionist and did like to see things through but even she was not that callous. Besides she could not take adverse criticism of any kind, and the death of her only audience would be adverse in her book. He finally looked through the keyhole where he saw the object of his most extreme loathing doing it to his sister with the passion and expertise of a trombone player. At first the scream would not come and when it did he had to choke it back for fear of disclosure and discovery. He was uncertain of the possible consequences. In the extremes, therefore, of a very private agony he reached his arms above him and clawed his nails into the very wood as he gripped the door and slumped slowly to the floor, transmitting through the door an almost bestial degree of scratching. Only Brewholder felt the benefit of this pitiful sound although it is impossible to imagine what he made of it. Who knows what animals the human mind can conjure up when hanging in an overcoat, observing the very thrust of procreation, hearing the stifled screams of ecstasy and feeling the desperate scratchings of the tortured souls of the damned. It is entirely commendable that Brewholder maintained a stately silence. Mr.Smith also turned to silence, although he had little option since he had no intention of ever speaking to Overton-Williams no matter what the provocation. And Brewholder was still in the overcoat. There followed a time of brooding, through which the mystery of Jazz OvertonWilliams remained unsolved and largely unaddressed.

112

Chapter Eight
"So, how did the young woman die?" said the psychiatrist. "I didn't ask!" he replied immediately. They were sat on the grass in a small copse just below the lawn that skirted the back of the hospital. It was the view beyond Gabbler's window into which he had been gazing for some days now. A growing confidence, fired by an increasing frustration, had led the psychiatrist to petition the police for permission to extend the patient's environment; enliven the quality of his experiences. The increased stimulation, she thought, might 'press more buttons' and offer up sufficient distractions to trigger disclosurea perfectly rationalised approach. And then there was the recent and regular recurrence of Keats As she felt again the silky simmer of red on her lips, an unrefined trickle of sweat traced down between her breasts, licking onwards like flame across her stomach and into her"Oh for a life of sensation !" "I didn't ask!" he replied immediately "Why?" she continued, "Have you no interest in how she died?" "I seem to have assumed that I knowbut I don't know. But, then again, I'm uncertain whether I do know that I don't know - or don't know that I do know. I don't know the true extent of my 'not knowing' and, in consequence, the full potential for my 'knowing'. "Often when you break off the scab from a wound or a cut, it immediately starts to bleed again - in a seemingly more ferocious and unstoppable fashion. If I manage to break off the scab of my 'not knowing' will I just 113

carry on knowing until I discover I know everythingand can one, in fact, ever know that one knows everything, or is that like trying to prove a negative" "I think you're getting" she sought to arrest his accelerating spiral. What he was getting was into it - whatever that appeared to be. And it appeared to be mainly the words, the concepts. The arrangement of them that represented an account of the real world - in order to put it in order. And he appeared to be good at it - in the same way that one might be good at boxing, irrespective of whether it was for pleasure, for sport or for settling scores - it didn't seem important to distinguish. He took his fare share of punches but managed to dodge just as many. The engagement didn't make him particularly happy or angry, and he couldn't decide if it amused him. Maybe that was his true calling maybe he was a Manager. Maybe he had the wit and resilience to manage anything and anyone - however absurd. Maybe his talent was for "rationale" or the indifference to 'go under the wire' and operate without one; his inability to manage being the very quality that made him a Manager. He would, of course, go mad if he ever accidentally became acquainted with 'ethics' - unless, like vaccination, he had embraced them fully once, in the past, and having defeated them with a "rationale" he was now immune to their nagging. "I think you're getting " she sought to recover his attention, and the quiet authority of the jolt brought him back with an unexpected frisson, inexplicably sexual; the cold, capable woman who knows exactly what she wants, probably Swedish. " getting nowhere?" he finished her sentence for her.

114

"No, I meant" she clearly preferred to finish her own sentences but he interrupted her again. "There appears to be a complete absence of knowledge surrounding the dead girl." He continued. There was clearly no dangerous spiral here for him to fall into, and the zigzagging of his path was intentional; it was not making him dizzy, "We do not appear to have access even to her identity. I, in consequence, am the sole connection albeit loose and circumstantial. No-one else has any knowledge to offer. Therefore, I have a blank canvas on which to construct a feasible account that will meet with a consensus of acceptance. "The only constraint being that my account must accommodate the few 'facts' that are available. And most of these 'facts' are also the product of earlier consensus's of opinion reflecting current understandings of physics, chemistry or whatever other applicable scientific or specific knowledge pertains. The fact that I have role here is also part of that consensus one which is desperately in need of your particular contribution. "Is it possible for me, or indeed anyone else, to construct such a 'feasible account' - blank canvas or not ? Of course it is. And would such an account be accepted being the only available account from a witness; a witness who is doubtful in terms of whether he was actually a witness, and doubtful in terms of the reliability of his account. And here again we must turn to the prospect of securing the necessary consensus agreement. "I know that securing such agreement will be unlikely if the account includes Aliens or any form of unexplained magic, so I must be careful that such difficulties are not presented. A quantum amount of possibilities still remains available." "You appear to be angry?" she said. " What's far more concerning," he replied, "is that I appear to be knowledgeable." 115

" But not about how the woman died?" "I didn't ask how she died." He said, more slowly, as if returning through the door he'd just entered.

__________________________

116

Chapter Eight.2

Whisper returned to work to some sympathy from most of the staff who had had, in various versions, some account of his traumatic ordeal. There were some, however, who refused to be swayed to sympathy. Many still remembered the fire and the permanent damage done to the cashier, Chloe Street, not to mention Williams who had been the howling victim of the hot coffee. He had clearly been marked for life by the event, not least on his glittering pate. It now sported a relief map of the once-great British Empire, in pink, but the real the mark just hung like a shadow about his reputation. Conclusions had not been finally reached on Williams' role in the affair, or the ambiguity of the assistance he had offered to the prostrate and struggling cashier. An unidentified faction were firmly persuaded to the view that he had sought to take advantage of the girl's distress - an unambiguous and unsigned message left on his desk proclaimed - "Death to all looters!". It appeared at first to be written in the blood of a virgin but closer inspection revealed sub-standard, blackcurrant cordial. There was little relief in this forensic discovery since when he attempted to complain to the Manager he was forever distracted by the severe discolouration about the man's lips. It was a clear indication of either a very severe heart condition or a recent draught of blackcurrant juice. He was promptly discharged by the Manager with a fair degree of distaste and a cursory admonition to pull himself together and keep his pecker up; advice that some might have considered reckless! He also received death threats from Mr.Street, the cashier's father, who had apparently become a psychopath much in the same way that another man might become a 117

priest. With the zeal of the vigilante he had pledged his life to plotting serious and dangerous discomfort for all those party to his daughter's distress. But a touch of humour characterized all of his foul deeds. It was no saving grace, but who would deny a tortured soul the occasional laugh. Whisper had already had a laugh at Street's gleeful expense but his disability with names was likely to prevent him from realising this. Much had happened to Whisper, however, and most of it too fast. He was already living life with all the thoughtfulness of a pin-ball, and each subsequent buffeting reduced the fleeting background to even more flashing lights and unrelated "pings!". All about him was just blare and buzzing. No-one ever gossipped with him so the politics of his situation was hidden from him, and the occasional kind word of condolence simply acted to confuse him even more. It was impossible for him to work out exactly what it was that these kind people were sorry for. There were, in truth, so many possibilities.What they were, in fact, sorry about was the whole lot; the fire, the embarrassment, the Wellwright job, the attempt on his life, the loss of his wife, the cut of his clothes. the curse of his personal hygiene and so much more. They were simply expressing a communal concern - "What a fucking mess!". The condolence was invariably accompanied by the involuntary shiver of those haunted by a bad taste they can still recall; the glimpse of something nasty in the woodshed. But sympathy at work is always a distant thing, and it did not extend to offers of practical help. In relation to the Wellright visit he was most definitely on his own. Mr.Priestman summoned him to report on progress and was unimpressed when Whisper sought to explain that he had only been in work for a total of thirty minutes since receiving the commission. The Manager conceded that it might have been an exceptionally trying time for him but 118

pointed out that, for this very reason, he could not afford to be saddling himself with even more problems at work! Whisper tried to argue that due to his absence from work he had hardly had time to saddle himself with anything - far less problems - but his words fell on deaf ears. Priestman not only failed to listen but ducked down inexplicably behind his desk like a man suddenly robbed of all support from the left side of his body. He reappeared immediately with an ugly pile of documentation which he had retrieved from the floor and sought to give it to Whisper. But Whisper had taken to the floor himself, in search of the Manager's fall. "Have you been left with something recurring?" enquired the Manager when Whisper regained his feet, addressing him as if he were a vulgar fraction. "I beg your pardon?" Whisper was genuinely at a loss. "Are you sure you are fully fit?" It wasn't a question but an admonition. "This is a very important job. We can't afford to get it wrong, and it's all down to you! Do you understand? I've given everyone your name!" If recent experience was anything to go by, Whisper was convinced that everyone already had his name. He took the papers and offered the required reassurance. Matters appeared to have reached a satisfactory conclusion and he was on his way out when the Manager said a strange thing. He said that he wanted Whisper to forget all about the fire, the damaged cashier and the paranoid Williams. This was strange because Whisper had long since forgotten about the fire, and didn't know he shouldn't have done. He had not known the cashier was damaged and was now forced to wonder in what way. And, finally, Williams' paranoia had been a feature of office life long before the fire - some said long before the flood. In the midst of so many strange things in his life this was strange because its purpose was unclear, and the information seemed pointedly 119

curtailed. There appeared to be more, and yet the "more" was denied him. What is more the "more" was denied him with a smile; a strange smile. Managers don't have any other kind of smile. He turned to pursue the matter with Mr.Priestman but he had disappeared again beneath his desk. So he left. At least he had managed to solve the mystery of why the Manager's desk was always unburdened with work. He obviously kept it all on the floor. But as usual he was wrong. Mr.Priestman was simply hiding. To heighten the drama of his final remarks, he had ducked down behind his desk to avoid giving further clarification. The Manager was slowly slipping into mental breakdown but no-one was likely to find that out just yet. As he shuffled through the clumsy lacework of corridors that led back to his office he could not lose the feeling that he was being followed. As he continually turned to look about him he caught fractured glimpses of the renegade Williams dodging the open spaces in the practiced, crouching style of Ben Gunn. Whisper had failed initially to recognise him since he had taken to wearing an embroidered skull cap to hide the painful disfigurement on his head. The device was singularly ineffective, however, giving him such a totally unique appearance that his every effort to disappear into the background merely cast him in sharp relief to it. Back in his room Whisper ploughed through the mass of assembled papers against the constant distraction of something scratching, mouselike, at the door. Every time he went to look, however, the corridor was clear. Pressed for time, because of the precious amounts of it he had recently lost, he turned to the interminable schedules, lists and instructions pertaining to the visit of the irascible Wellright. It all seemed very straightforward. He was to arrive in just over five weeks time, a Friday, at 10.00 in the 120

morning. He was to be collected at the station in a limousine (to be arranged by Whisper) in liaison with Wellrights personal assistant, Mr.Irwin Throbe, and his personal secretary, Miss Velma Svolti. From the station he would be brought straight to the office where he would complete a brisk tour, shaking hands with the staff, finishing with coffee in the Manager's room at midday. He would then repair to his Hotel for lunch, reappearing at the Town hall at 2.00pm where he would meet the Lord Mayor. He would then spend the afternoon in informal meetings with local organisations before returning to the Hotel to change for the civic dinner that evening in the banqueting suite. At whatever time he was replete of food and drink he was to be returned to his room where and when Whisper's responsibilities finished. He noted that the arrangements with the Hotel were being made by Miss Svolti as were most of the "domestic" matters. His responsibilities were specifically for the official appointments and agenda and, of course, security. Taking the latter very seriously, he spoke on the telephone to the Deputy Chief Constable who briskly informed him that Special Branch had the matter entirely in hand. He apparently preferred Whisper "out" of security arrangements but demanded a full and firm timetable, minute by minute, listing all places to be visited, including toilets! Whisper was about to agree but this proved unneccessary since his agreement was not being sought. So Whisper dutifully drew up his list, although at the moment it consisted of little else but times, at fifteen minute intervals which was his own compromise on the Police demand for a minute by minute schedule. He had queried the over-zealous timings required but little help was offered. "How long does it take for a man to die?" they asked him, and initially he took it as a threat - until he realised the point the policeman was making. He had then given the matter serious thought and come up with fifteen 121

minutes. It was a sorry perception of the way the world works but it was a considerable help in drawing up a schedule. Even so, he thought it best to contact Wellright's personal assistant for advice on the particular detail of the agenda. "You write it down and we'll do it, Roundhood!" said the unlikely American who had an obsessive love of all things English, and really did try to speak English. "We don't want to cause you any trouble now, mind you, but if there are any bits of history down there and you'd like us to give them the "once over" - his Lordship permitting, of course - perhaps you could give us a bit more detail when you send us the background stuff, if you see what I mean." "What about security?" "It's your show, Roundhood, do it your way. Its always best to have just one man in the frame, you know what I mean eh?" Whisper didnt know and he tried to explain the differing roles and responsibilities taken on by himself and the police, but the American did not seem remotely interested. His interest seemed to extend little further than tourist information and the quality of hotels. He was in the process of telling Whisper that Miss Svolti was on her way down to see him to arrange a hotel when the said woman, ravishing beyond the dreams of man, rapped on his door and came in. "Mr Rounvood?" she said. Whisper nodded, and continued to nod, and mumble, into the telephone, informing Irwin the historyman that Miss Svolti had, in fact, just arrived. Conducting a telephone conversation while a third party was observing caused Whisper an irrational degree of embarrassment. It carried with it connotations of performance and possibly voyeurism. Consequently he found control slipping away from him as the American's voice drifted away into distant chatter, and

122

he could hear himself raising the question again of how long it took for a man to die. The beautivull zecretary had an instinctive awareness of the havoc she caused among men. And she always interpreted it as the uncontrollable brimmings of lust relative to her own desirability. But for Whisper it was just nervous embarrassment that peppered his conversation with a procession of non-sequiturs. "You're not making sense, man!" moaned the historyman. Whisper wasn't making sense, he was making lists. Having inexplicably started at the end of the day he was working backwards in fifteen minute intervals, offering each to the confused American for consideration and suggestion. To Throbe, it sounded like the talking clock slipping into catatonia as its remorseless countdown tripped ever onwards. "Have you gone crazy, man? Give me Velma!" It sounded like a madman's cry for the pacifying drug - "For God's sake give me Velma!". But the helpless siren had dropped to her knees before Whisper, her hands locked about his thighs. Apparently big boy was not to vorry! And somewhere between 2.15, 2.00 and 1.45 Whisper's eyes rolled as the marvellous Aphrodite expressed her uncommon generosity with remarkable eloquence. The despairing Throbe was losing patience with the relentless march of time and sensed he was the butt of some appalling English humour. Because of his limited sexual experience, Whisper genuinely believed that the strange woman was literally going to eat an important part of him. After all she did appear to be partly foreign. He didn't fancy being eaten at all and so, with customary pragmatism and a total lack of subtlety, he dealt her a resounding blow with the telephone. "Roundhood! Roundhood, are you still ther......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" 123

The skull cap arrived first, as Williams snaked round Whisper's door to be greeted by the sight of the spreadeagled woman and the extended penis. While any other man might have thought of rape, Williams remained silent and, with the true instincts of an animal who remembers bad things, he simply raised both hands to protect his head and scampered away. Had the discovery been made by anyone else Whisper would have been in serious trouble. As with everything else in her life, Velma interpreted the blow on her head as some kind of sexual signal, albeit outside of her experience thus far. In consequence, she returned to London comfortably intrigued by this aggressive provincial, and looked forward with great anticipation to her next visit. For his part, Whisper was uncertain. He had never been eaten before and the memory would not leave him. He was concerned because somewhere deep down he thought he had enjoyed it. And surely that was the very epitome of depravity. It bothered him more that it was a fulfilment he could experience only once, since once he had been eaten he could not be eaten again, at least not without regurgitation. It was an inescapable truth - there is no dignity in sex. And then his thoughts returned to Jane where dignity, sex and the lack of either had thus far been the defining feature their relationship if indeed there was a relationship.

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Chapter Nine
"I think it's time." said the psychiatrist, "In fact, I think it is considerably well past 'time' " There was no response from the Inspector 'though he may have blinked, or flinched slightly. But in the main, he offered only mute opposition to the psychiatrist's contention - that it was time. They were reviewing progress in a very formal way, and in a very formal setting. They were in the psychiatrist's comfortably personalised, but smart, clinical office. They were safely distant from Gabbler's room. And they were content that he was not part of this meeting, and that he was almost certainly unaware that it was taking place. "I'm sorry" The Inspector replied, "I fully appreciate that you are better equipped to guess at the prospects of a breakthrough but .." "I don't 'guess', Inspector." "No, of course, I'm sorry." The Inspector apologised, without conviction, "But, however you arrive at your conclusions, I accept that your opinion " "My clinical judgement." "your clinical judgement will hold far more sway than my own cynical judgement. And, quite properly, you will decide how you treat your patient - my 'suspect'. But the conduct of my investigation will always remain a matter for me - and that includes the timing of any disclosures." "I was unaware that he is officially a 'suspect', of what is he suspected?" "Is such information essential to your.." "No." she conceded immediately, " not about your suspicions, no! But it would be useful to have access and for him to have access - to any factual information you 125

may have about him - the man, or any of the events surrounding his discovery and removal into custody." "Technically, the gentleman is not in custody. I would assume that once your 'clinical judgement' suggests that he is not a danger to himself or others, you could take it upon yourself to release him." " except that I too have my suspicions - prime amongst which is that you are withholding essential information from me, and from him. For God's sake, I 'suspect' you even know who he is!" "If, indeed, we were holding that information - for God's sake or, indeed anybody else's - it would be a matter for God, or such other person, to decide what to do with it " The inspector allowed himself a wry smile, but then immediately continued, sensing the psychiatrist's growing anger and frustration. " but seriously 'though, I can assure you that we have no more idea who the man is than you do - if you'll pardon the presumption. In the circumstances, it is an uncomfortable mystery. And, like all mysteries - for the police at least - they remain uncomfortable until their persistence; their resistance to solution removes them, quite naturally, into the shadier grasp of idle writers, and eccentric speculation." " But surely there must be some loose ends after the fire? A list of suspects? unanswered questions? You must consider there to be some link?" "Clearly, there are still some minor inconsistencies and loose ends but none that constitutes a real link to your 'mystery'. We are entirely content that your man has no connection whatsoever with the fire at the Old Manor Hotel. Unless circumstance produces such a solid link, I don't want your 'mystery' infecting my investigation." "It was your mystery before it became mine!"

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"Ah, but it was not yet a mystery when I had it." He smiled, "It only became a mystery when you were unable to resolve the questions we asked you to resolve?" "So your investigations have revealed nothing; fingerprints; teeth; DNA; God knows what else?" "I wont insult your intelligence by detailing the obvious reasons that such technologies are of no help to us in this case. We could, of course, put his picture in the paper, and on television - that would offer the best option for potential success but, unless we can associate him with a crime, we would really need his permission?otherwise there are risks " "Risks to who?" "All of us, I would think. Arguably, greater for him than ourselves since our risks probably just surround 'professional' competence and liability But I am speculating on the unknown." "None of which offers me, or the poor man, any help at all! You appear to be casting us adrift - entirely dependent on each other for any solution - you're not prepared to give us any help at all?" "Empathy - " he declared as a 'summing up', with equal measures of smugness and indifference, "I thought that was what psychiatry was all about. He rescues you; you rescue him - whichever! Whatever! Who knows where salvation comes from?" "Maybe I should look for a priest!" "Maybe he is a priest! Although I suspect you might be better served looking for a magician - no offence, mind you, just a joke. As I said, unless a solid link is discovered I am content to keep your Gabbler confined here with you!" She flushed, irrationally distracted by a word. Once again the Gabbler had been declared 'hers' - "your Gabbler". She did not remotely trust the Inspector, nor did she believe him, but she knew enough to recognise that in such unselfconscious comment he let slip a casual truth 127

"your Gabbler". It appeared that everyone was confirmed of this fact, except she. Was the psychiatrist persuading herself to mistake the honesty of a perception for truth itself. Ah, the madness of love - whichever way you looked at it! ________________________

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Chapter Nine.2
It was an old trick but it worked. On only his third visit to the Bridewell Mr.Smith managed to spring the dormant murderess - a good deal earlier than expected. Carrying his love too far, as usual, the assistant-counsel for the defence swept gallantly into Mrs. Roundwood's cell, dispatched the attending policeman on the grounds of confidentiality and stripped himself naked. The queen of the Amazon failed to gasp but he let that pass. Complicitly she also stripped and, following a brief discussion, dressed again - in Mr.Smith's discarded clothes, while he dressed in hers. Forethought enabled Mr.Smith to produce a hat to shade the feminine features of her face and collect her hair into a more manly appearance, and the switch was complete. The success of the plan relied heavily on the fact that, without exception, the inhabiting force at the police station regarded Smith as some form of reptilean mutant with a foul odour to be avoided at all cost. But to further ensure that the escaping wife would not be detained by idle conversation or social courtesies, Smith had secreted in his jacket pocket a mixed bag of decaying items rescued from his master's dustbin. The success of this ploy had been apparent on the way in when everyone he passed gave him increasing amounts of space. Only the robust desk sergeant, feeling the responsibility he owed to younger staff, dared to foray close to disarm the threat; "You're diseased, mate, d'ye know that?" he cursed from behind his hand like a man on the periphery of a forest fire. The other essential element of the plan was designed to ensure that Smith was not suspected of any complicity in the escape and required him to sustain a disabling blow to the head. Given the character of their 129

relationship so far, it was already apparent that casual beatings were beginning to be a significant feature. To the good wife, however, no beatings were ever casual, so not only did she draw blood but also rent a noticeable fissure in his skull. The shuddering impact effected a seismic jumble in the imperfect order of the bits forming his personality. The blow was typically over zealous but did the trick. Without a backward glance, she made good her escape. Thereafter everything worked like clockwork, albeit in an age of solid state batteries. She glided unhindered through the busy police station. Her complete lack of familiarity with any layout beyond the confines of her cell caused her to make several errors of direction and sent her on a more circuitous route than neccessary. This took her into the staff canteen where she cut a swathe through the diners with a plague of un-looked-for vommitting as she dragged her loathesome stench across the surfaces of tables ripe with good fayre. So sudden was the onslaught that none could find voice as the struggle against nausea froze them in animated postures like the victims petrified at Pompeii. In the reception area she swept past the waiting sergeant who forced a bar of soap into her hand as she passed. She neither looked nor paused. "It's called soap!" he sniped after her, "You'll probably need to wet it first!" He had lots more sarcasm to dispense but as the wash suddenly hit he started to gag. Back in the cell the bleeding clerk was eventually discovered. He had in fact been discovered twice previously but in each case the full impact had not been grasped. The earlier observers had assumed that the mythological temptress was painfully involved in some ancient ritual demanding quantities of blood or fresh air to the brain. The complications and paperwork invovled in discovering any other kind of incident was sufficient deterrent to ensure against it. In the event the third 130

observer, a young female recruit, was betrayed by a sudden rush of excitement which propelled her thoughtlessly into the room before the consequences had become clear to her. PC Felicity Charters flipped the prone body over onto its back and was confronted by the gaping stare of a woman once beautiful and now reduced to a coarse and pimpled ugliness. She was momentarily forced to consider the foolishness of magic and the price paid by those who jealously aspired to Godhead. In search of explanation her thoughts then turned to transmutation of the flesh and possession, her mind wandering on through a veritable fairground of implausible realities. Even when the latearriving Inspector Jenkins revealed to her the external genitalia on the body she assumed cruel medical experimentation. This explained the grimmace on her face as she manhandled the dormant fuse in search of stitches, or other evidence of a welding process. The disbelieving Inspector was forced to have her led away and by twilight the curtain had slipped from her eyes and the obvious truth dawned. She remained permanently horrified at the recollection of her own stupidity and the persevering image of herself playing energetically with the man's penis in front of a gaping audience. In her sleep the recurring memory would cause her to groan out loud in abject embarrassment, provoking the unspoken jealousy of her husband who suspected that orgies inhabited her dreams. Having raised the alarm on the fugitive woman Thumper Jenkins reluctantly had the concussed clerk conveyed to the local hospital. Arriving there, the apparent transvestite was greeted with some distaste, not because of the fetish but because of his grey, scaly features and corresponding odour. The size of his feet and the forest of hairs on his legs also seemed far more gross in the context of a ladies' dress. Only a sister could love him but predictably, when she arrived, she didn't. Like St.Peter she 131

consistently and vigorously denied he was her brother even in the face of entirely bemused looks from her colleagues who were unaware that she even had a brother. Satisfied that her protestations had demonstrated she had no particular reason to stay, his sister left to return to her business elsewhere in the hospital leaving the rest to wander why she had come in the first place. The Inspector gave the doctor the benefit of his own reconstruction of events that had led to the patient's sorry state, and strange dress. And the doctor had little difficulty in following the plot or the logic. It was clear to him that the escapee would have needed the cover of Mr.Smith's clothes in order to effect the actual escape. It was equally clear that it would have been neccessary to disable Mr.Smith to enable her to take the said clothes. The point over which the doctor struggled was in understanding the peculiar drive that compelled the desperate fugitive to pause in her headlong flight in order to dress the unconscious clerk in her own discarded clothing. With effort, and the exhaustion of a 90 hour shift, he could persuade himself to let this pass, but he continually failed to construct any logic that explained the need to switch underwear. And Mr.Smith was indeed wearing the woman's underwear, unless Mr.Smith always wore............... When the doctor raised the point with Thumper Jenkins the Inspector merely eyed him cautiously and backed away. The troubled policeman could not imagine how treatment for a blow on the head could require the doctor to look up the man's dress. He had always found the medical profession slightly threatening because of their rights of access to one's insides, but he found it profoundly disturbing to discover a doctor who allowed himself total licence with the patient's underwear. These unproductive thoughts sufficiently distracted Jenkins to allow the doctor's very pertinent questions to go unanswered. The Inspector was to rediscover these 132

questions some time later and mistake them for blinding insight, but not before the bleeding obvious had pointed him in the right direction. For, while he was still pondering, the good wife, disguised in gown and white mask, returned the favour and "sprung" her accomplice from the confines of the hospital where he was not particularly confined. Barely an hour after being stitched, and in a period designated as rest, Mr.Smith opened his eyes to a veritable perforation of lights arrowing down the ceiling as he was wheeled at great speed in a desperate, and quite literal, push to freedom. The whole experience was something of a mystery to him as was his apparent liberation, principally because he was legitimately unaware that he was held captive. At an exit reserved for refuse, the dizzy clerk was catapulted by an abrupt halt into the back of a waiting estate car. Trapped in the shroud of his sheets, he writhed briefly like a tadpole and then lapsed back into sleep where he wrestled in dreams of who the masked Amazon might be. In real time, however, the masked Amazon was burning rubber and crunching gears as she sped out of the hospital and headed for the hills in the stolen car. Anywhere else on the road, the erratic and terrifying lurches of the car might have caused some alarm but the security guard at the hospital mistook the white mask for frothing at the mouth and simply assumed that some poor inmate with a seizure was struggling to regain control of the vehicle. In any case all of the administrative staff, following the murderous excesses of a previous porter, had been specifically barred from any independent actions not directly authorised by a relevant superior. By the time Jenkins had been informed the getaway car had been abandonned by the felons and discovered by the police without either party gaining any advantage from it. For the police it held no clues and for the good wife it had proved as feckless as her husband, failing her at her 133

time of greatest need. Petrol would have helped................. but the detail of that argument need not concern us. ___________________________ For Mr.Smith the after-effects of the concussion still lingered and left him weak. Hunger and fatigue made him even weaker and the searing cold bit like unrelenting criticism into the thin material of his dress. Nestled like a true vagrant in the belly of a roadside ditch, arable land swept away from him on all sides to distant hills and moorlands. And it was from these unprotected reaches that the chill wind raced down upon him to rattle his bones and balloon his meager skirt. Mr.Smith was frozen and wished he had not woken up. The headlong escape had not permitted time for an exchange of clothes, or so he presumed since his recollection of events was somewhat patchy. So, what the good wife was losing in style, she was more than gaining in warmth. The sluggish Mr.Smith lost out on all counts. The love of a strong woman clearly brings with it certain disadvantages. The good wife had left him at the crack of dawn after spending a night at the mercy of the elements. "Off to forage!" were her parting words which raised in Mr.Smith an unreasonable expectation of porridge, on the strength of which he secured another two hours uncomfortable sleep. Instead of porridge, however, he woke to the aforementioned fatigue, hunger, cold and general debility. The good wife did return fairly quickly carrying a large chicken which pulsed blood from a gaping wound in its throat. And while Smith was predictably shocked he was rather more dismayed to see the irreparable damage it had done to his suit. He had looked forward to a joyful reunion with the suit and drawn sustenance from the promise of that. This crushing disappointment fllowing so swiftly on the absence of porridge became too much to bear. He burst into tears 134

and cried for a whole accumulation of things, as exhausted men will do. But the good wife slapped him beneficially as good women will do. The slap from the bloodied hand left stripes across his cheek like war paint and spattered liberal amounts of blood over his dress. In such a desolate place it was a harmless if distasteful pantomime, but even from a hailing distance the couple appeared to be wallowing in an orgy of blood lust 'though the poor victim was not readily visible. One is forced to wonder then in this place; at this time , what kind of man would, unrequested, stop his car and offer them a lift? They were not even hitchhiking. It was a kind of man with silver-black eyes, and two gold teeth; the sharpest of suits and a restrained quiver about the lips at the sight of blood; it was a travelling salesman. The two fugitives froze in mid-trauma and looked at the sleek car panting at the roadside; the benign expression framed in the window, and eyes the colour of polished metal. "You seem to be in some distress?" the traveller hissed so sweetly. "Why should you care?" hissed back the good wife, alert but unmoving; thinking of police. "Because I do care." said the traveller, widening his eyes and tilting his head to indicate the uneven weight of his concern. "That seems an uncommon degree of caring?" "But I'm an uncommon man!" "Clearly!" the good wife drawled, already intrigued and struggling to maintain her concentration, "But you'll have to do better than that!" "I'll have to do better than that?" the man feigned indignant amusement. "You mean I am required to validate my credentials to a pair of blood-spattered derelicts at the side of the road? Even if I were the devil incarnate, I still think a lift from me is the best of all your visible options." 135

Mr.Smith and the good wife shivered, and thought it was the cold. The benign man hung forward across the passenger seat like a bird of prey frozen in flight, his elbows arched back like the swoop of death and about his eyes there was an almost imperceptible twinkle. And when the uncertainty of the silence became too much for him............. "I used to be a priest, d'ye see?" "Do I see what?" barked the good wife as Mr.Smith shivered again but failed to re-establish contact with his consciousness. "That's why I care so much! If anything, I probably care too much!" The man was clearly an obsessive which the good wife knew to be a dangerous thing, but fatigue continued to errode her will. "Ah, Fuck it!" she said and discarded the bleeding chicken, dragging the fading Mr.Smith into the back of the car. And as the sinewy machine zoomed them headlong into the featureless distance of the morning, no sound could be heard above the silence of the motor, apart from Mr.Smith's compulsive mumbling of half-remembered bits of the latin mass. To the good wife it was just hysterical jibberish, and even to the benign man it was fairly inaudible but there was a barely-noticeable degree of melting at the back of his neck which he flicked at unknowingly, as one would a mosquito bite. And yet, on the very lip of achievement, Mr.Smith's relentless mantra dispatched him into a heavy sleep, whence he fell into silence and the traveller ceased to dissolve. In the wake of the tyres, dust plumes rose up like spirits and formed themselves about the car in the manner of outriders. And without regard for distance or direction the good wife watched mesmerised as they spiralled further into the heart of the country. Imagining herself to be at least three counties away, she would have been dismayed to 136

learn that their eventual destination was a rented cottage only two miles from the very town she had so recently struggled to escape. So thankful was she of not being delivered directly to the police station or the hospital, or any other public place, she failed to address the central question. What excess of caring would lead a total stranger to take two bloodied lunatics into his own home without any real enquiry? "Who cares?" she might have thought as she too drifted off into thankful sleep with the sweet smell of unnamed herbs stroking her into submission from an unseen aperture in the back of the car. If the question was "Who cares?" then the answer was certainly the priest, but he was certainly not the answer also. And when they awoke, they were in bottles. They knew this from the very instant of their awakening; there was never any doubt about it. It felt like glass; it contained them; they could see the cork, and, being glass, they could see that they were perched on a very high shelf. From their individual bottles they could see each other but this was no comfort. They could see their own terror to vividly expressed on the face of the other. It is difficult to imagine how bad they felt.

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Chapter Ten
"I've been considering mysteries; possibly magic;" said Gabbler. "the apparent absence of any possible solution. In Physics, the simple 'elegance' of a proposed solution is often the surest indicator of probable success. It's quite the opposite in life. Generally, elegance promises only the possibility of seduction and deceit." "I don't know much about physics," the nurse was spread again - as she forever appeared to be - against the sunlit window, "in fact, I know nothing at all about Physics, but I do know about seduction. And there can't be any deceit in it - otherwise it doesn't work. What you're after might not be crystal clear sometimes but not the seduction itself? You can't pretend seduction." Gabbler remained unconvinced. He was certain that you could 'pretend' absolutely anything. Uncertainty only existed where the 'pretend' and the 'true' became identical, indecipherable - one from the other; like an eclipse ; like pickpockets brushing past each other in the street - not knowing who or what was taken from who, and what the 'taken' thing meant to whom. Wasn't that possibly the very nature of magic; a localised epidemic of stupidity and blind ignorance that suddenly strikes all but one of the company - however large the company - either by design or accident. Sometimes the "magician" knows and sometimes he does not. In either case his reaction to the stunned questioning - "How did you do that ?" - is inevitably the same; the enigmatic smile. Perhaps this is the mystery of all power and access is through a faulty trapdoor in the floor. Eventually, the nurse realised some possible significance in Gabbler's original reference to mysteries; maybe insights or revelations. Had he simply remembered 138

something that he was struggling to make sense of. Casually, she sought to lean on the bell to summon the psychiatrist. Concealing the action seemed to involve the nurse in a form of languid leaning, with a faraway look in her eye; a very theatrical display of nonchalance and innocence; all in all, the very parody of a seductive advance. "So what are these mysteries?" she enquired with a forced indifference that fought in vain against the apparent intensity of her leaning. Gabbler gathered his lips to answer as his eyes wrestled with the conflict of her body language, but before he could speak the door over his shoulder quietly opened and the psychiatrist swept in. "He's considering mysteries!" blurted out the nurse like a child tumbling from the precarious position where normality had previously been balanced. "Yes, thank you, nurse." Said the psychiatrist as she moved to effect the difficult recovery. Gabbler's darting eyes already indicated a faltering appraisal of the immediate mystery that appeared to be stalking him. "If you'd like to leave us, nurse, I'm sure that we can discuss whatever concerns our patient has. Assuming," she turned to Gabbler as the nurse left, "assuming that you have concerns to discuss? I'm afraid the nurse can be a little obtuse and excitable but, of course, you would know that." "She does appear highly charged at times sexually, I mean." - his understanding of events obviously lacked an essential piece of information. "And does that concern you?" "It's just difficult to follow sometimes, or understand." "And does that make it a mystery?" immediately she said it, she knew and cursed her impatience. "What?"

139

"Do you find sex a mystery?" Good God, he thought. He was almost sure that these were not the mysteries he had been considering - Do I find sex a mystery? "Doesn't everyone?" She immediately realised, in something of a tepid panic, that this was certainly true for her but she had to abandon that truth in pursuit of Gabbler's potentially greater problems. If leaping too soon to the subject of Mysteries was a mistake, then dragging in 'Sex' on the back of it was not only ludicrous but alarmingly revelatory - not, of course, to Gabbler. "Is sex a mystery to you?" she persisted, "Do you, for instance, remember any specific occasion when you had sex with someone - maybe the last occasion?" "I don't think I do" Gabbler was obviously struggling. "Are you sure?" the psychiatrist pressed on, edging closer towards him as she slowly unbuttoned the designer dress beneath her crisp white coat. He felt her breath and watched a pearl of moisture twinkle its way down the length of her stomach like a falling star and, mesmerised, he reached out slightly and caught it on the back of his index finger. The sizzle came without a spark - for Gabbler, at least - but a light briefly flashed before his eyes. "I remember a tattoo " He said, " a faceless monk, or something, in a long black robe and hood on a shoulder, or thigh, or somewhere." "Excellent!" she said somewhat breathlessly, the glow in her face and body already starting to dissipate from the cold in her voice. "The profane and the sacred " Gabbler continued, with the comfort of some kind of temporary release, "magic and ceremony illusion and reality I have been considering mysteries?" ______________ 140

Chapter Ten.2
Whisper feared to draw breath and lurched in the control of a quiet panic. He swayed rhythmically backwards and forwards in fortunate harmony with the mumbled chant. The black satin of his habit intermittently clung to his naked body with the occasional static, and the hood about his head sparked against his hair, amplified as flames crackling at his ears. The air was black between the peaks of several other hoods and beyond, on an elaborate altar, before a wall of mirrors he saw leaping tongues of fire. And, behind the flame, stood the Grand Master, Ossipus, spread in prayer and masked beneath the required ram's head. Slowly the magician loosed a sword and raised it above his head as the chant grew to an awesome crescendo. "Good God!" thought Whisper, and the chant stopped. The whole company turned to him and he struggled to keep all other blasphemous thoughts out of his head. There was a quiet "pop" and then an unfamiliar aroma of foul sweetness sprawled itself across the room. The stench was of burning flesh and, as noses twitched, some of the weaker neophytes retched. One of the great joys of a magical trance is the acute sharpening of all one's senses. One of the great risks, in consequence, is the undisciplined farting of the uninitiated. But fear will often find a way of expressing itself. Whisper steeled his gaze against their tormented writhings and stood rooted to the spot; transfixed, like a mirror to the power. He had not felt the fart and that worried him, but what worried him more was the everincreasing power of the acrid smell which was unmistakably of burning flesh. He feared that, immobilised in trance, his biology had finally exploded and he shuddered to imagine what might be left of his back and 141

thighs. Assailed by these imaginings, he opted to faint and wavered impressively before, in mid-fall, he was snatched back to reality by a scream that scraped at the walls like the devil itself. Up ahead, the Grand Master stood beneath a ball of flame, wrestling like a magician possessed to free himself from the fire that consumed the ram's head. ___________________ To a man, everyone thought it was quite the best rite they had attended and, in truth, there was much to support that view. Whisper had never meddled with witchcraft before although his physical gifts suggested that witchcraft had carelessly meddled with him. So it was with some surprise that he found himself in these surroundings. It should have been fear, rather than surprise, but Whisper had a slowness about him that delayed the mental engagement necessary for fear. His body, however, permanently registered fear and was forever subject to involuntary disgorge. And if one is to ask how a man so poorly equipped finds himself in such inappropriate circumstances, one should be prepared for a predictable answer; love. Where a normal man would pursue a courtship with flowers, kind words and gradual ingratiation, Whisper adopted the methods of a 19th century poacher. Deducing that his appearance and manner were his major drawbacks, he apparently sought to track and trap his quarry from a position of relative invisibility, often after nightfall. For any prospective lover this attitude carried with it tremendous risks of misunderstanding. But for someone as angular as Whisper it was the stuff of horror movies. The attractive young lady, whom he now knew as Jane, was innocently unaware of the degree to which Whisper had been smitten. She was not, however, a 142

complete fool. She had noticed the way he had looked at her and measured in this look a predictable degree of interest. She had, after all, been almost naked. Another observer may have read something more into the saintly pallor that overtook the man's face, but she had been distracted by the absence of any indication of breathing on his part. Even when he had said "Good night" there had been no breath. And it was some minutes later, from the safety of her own house, that she saw him move as he folded at the waist and vomited with all of the ferocity of someone caught running like a young man in the middle of an old man's life. The attractive young lady looked for something positive in the gesture but gave up when the painful and unremitting retching started to affect her own stomach. Whisper then maintained a two hour vigil beneath her window, clutched in the foetal position and gasping for breath. And only when the increasing cold represented the greater threat did he risk the breathing and stumble homewards, wrestling with the double-vision. He would never be sure whether it was actually love or oxygen debt, but his heart ached like it never had before. Any thoughts of a dying husband had been buried deep in the rarelyvisited vaults of his mind.. It had taken him a full day to recover fully but there was some comfort to be drawn from the certainty that any residual poison which may have still lurked in his body was now completely expunged. Body and soul, he was empty. There was equally an absence in his life. The attractive young lady was the only remaining feature on a barren landscape, apart from the recurring nausea. And in the absence of any philosophical condition, or his wife's cooking, he was forced to interpret the nausea as love. The manner in which he brought the two items together; love and the attractive young lady, owed more to the life sciences pioneered in Transylvania than any 143

modern brand of romance. Having landed on the notion that he loved the young woman, he tested and explored the idea with all the mental agility of cranks and steam engines. Once ratified in the brain, the idea was passed to the planning department which appeared to be manned by the seven dwarves, an apple and a svelte witch with all the same angles as Whisper himself. Fortunately the apple was in charge. The eventual plan amounted to Whisper following the young lady for sufficient time to allow him to map out her life and, consequently, discover a point at which he could casually re-enter it. Given that he wished to remain unseen during this period of surveillance he spent much of his time in dark clothes, at night, pressed into doorways or coiled round corners. The plank on which he based his theory of invisibility appeared to be "camouflage and total immobility" which at least seemed to work for most of the animal kingdom. The problems only really existed when the ploy did not work. And even then it would not have been a problem if he had not continually refused to concede the failure. In the face of severe provocation and direct physical pokings by the innocents who had discovered him, Whisper insisted on remaining frozen like a wax mannequin; an obstinacy that only served to gather a crowd. Even then survival was still possible had he not lost his nerve at the very moment his tormentors had started to believe. His sudden lurch for escape invariably gave rise to a most infectious fright resulting in everyone else leaping to escape in different directions at the same time; panic escalating as each blocked the path of the other, producing a fevered melee from which only Whisper managed to get clear. As sightings increased the local press came to refer to the phantom as the "Mystery Blackfoot" which typically was a name born out of misunderstanding. All witnesses reported the figure to be dressed entirely in black, which 144

was correct, and they also reported an unmistakable "phut" sound which immediately preceded the phantom's disappearance. The subsequent smell that followed the "phut" was not noted since must of the onlookers had been sufficiently startled to produce their own smells. The editor decided, however, that his readership were more "at home" with red indians than ancient Egyptians and so opted for "Blackfoot" instead of "Blackphut". Predictably, the editor had over-estimated the intelligence of his readership. The effect of the nickname was to concentrate all attention on the phantom's unremarkable feet, or at least one of them. This prompted a particularly ardent witness to write a letter to the newspaper insisting that "without the slightest doubt" both of the phantom's feet were black, and in consequence demanded the name be changed to "Mystery Blackfeet". But, in reply, a host of alert readers wrote to point out that it was the blackness of only one foot that produced the mystery, and that if both feet were now to be adjudged black then the name should be simply "Blackfeet". Other correspondents argued that the use of the plural "Blackfeet" was at odds with the singularity of the person and, as such, implied that the feet were acting independently of the controlling body. The debate continued for some time in spite of the fact that Whisper "killed off" the character within days of his appearance in the press. Apart from being horrified at the consequences of the monster he had unwittingly created, he was content that he had already achieved his purpose. His investigations had revealed to him that the attractive young lady attended the "Millowing Old Mansion House" every Tuesday and Thursday evening, staying 'til the early hours. This commitment was clearly a large part of her life and, as such, represented to Whisper the best opportunity to insinuate himself. He had observed that at least twenty other people , of both sexes, also attended and 145

so it was safe to assume it was some kind of club. Whisper guessed it was amateur dramatics and, judging by some of the equipment taken in, the prospect of pantomime suggested itself. Unless he badly missed his guess, the chicken and the forester's axe could only mean "Jack and the Beanstalk". The "Millowing Old Mansion House" was a large, rambling house behind the Town Hall on the dark side of town. Set back from the road behind a short curving drive and a high wall. It was approached through intricate, wrought iron gates dwarfed by a virtual anarchy of trees and other unidentified growths. It is unclear whether anyone knew the origin of its name and certainly no-one could guess at its meaning. Many tried, of course, but most didn't care. If it was referred to at all it was simply called "The Old Mill", a laziness which misled local "know-italls" to create for it not only a plausible history but also a disappeared stream. It was clearly nonsense and of no particular interest to anyone apart from the landlord of The Bridge Inn which was next door. Whisper had made a full reconnaissance of the place in order to try and discover what activity it housed, but without success. He had scoured the local press and the local library but drew a complete blank. Seeing no real alternative, he had tried to elicit information casually from the arriving members. Whisper's idea of "casual", however, was only a few stops short of conspiratorial, and bore the stamp of the old, "Mystery Blackfoot.......feet...foots". The major difference was that these people were not distracted by fear. They simply ignored him with all the arrogance and distance of celebrities who no longer even see the autograph hunter. The plural is appropriate because Whisper's desperation led him to recover easily from the first failure, and the second, and the third, and....

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"It's a nice night." had been his earliest opening gambit and in the wake of its failure he switched to "Excuse me, have you seen my cat?" skipping eventually through a whole catalogue of increasingly bizarre openers, culminating in - "Good evening, that's a fine axe you have there!". It was at this point he started to become uneasy and lose confidence as he thought of what he might say in reply to any response to such a question. Any follow-up remarks and subsequent contributions to conversation were always the difficult ones, relying as they do on context and meaning. "Will you be taking the axe into the house?" or possibly, "I think you'll find there's some chickens in there already!" He could see himself tumbling down a steepening roller-coaster of hysterical mumbling, as he careered off in a direction that would lead him further away from his intended destination - always assuming he could remember where that was. With a typically-delayed realisation of failure he abandoned the tactic and rethought his strategy. Speed of thought for Whisper was all about the dire poverty of his imagination and nothing to do with the efficiency of his powers of reasoning. In consequence he found himself, the following Thursday, dressed in his favourite black, at the rear of "The Old Mill" setting about a ground floor window with his childhood Bowie knife. Pinned against the window by a bulk of undisciplined greenery he wrestled with the knife, the catch and the dexterity of a man attempting the Times crossword with a purple crayon. Fortunately there was total darkness within and without. Just when it seemed improbable that he would ever succeed in gaining entry, the blade of the knife slipped free, and while this didn't release the catch it did enable Whisper to catapult a surprised elbow through the previously silent glass.

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Not only was the sound petrifyingly loud but his rigidity was increased by the pain of the two splinters of glass lodged in his cheeks, in perfect symmetry, on either side of his nose. The blood dribbled down his face and he would have collapsed but the damned shrubbery held him erect against the window. He would have wept but with all the blood there was no room left on his cheeks. He must have stood there, impassive and without a thought, for at least fifteen minutes before it dawned on him that nothing had happened. The breaking of the glass appeared to have gone unnoticed. The virtue of this reprieve was that it should have allowed him to escape. For Whisper, of course, a fifteen minute pause served only to cleave a gap in his memory. He retained only faint access to what had gone before. Without even removing the splinters from his face he climbed through the window, reducing his trousers to shreds in the process. It was this latter damage that caused him to borrow the black satin gown he found hanging amongst others in the hall. As he moved about the house stealthily he had become concerned that were he to be discovered, he preferred not to display the indecency of his legs. He saw little of the house since it was entirely in darkness but a soft red light in the hall had revealed the coats of the attending members, and a positive wealth of black satin robes. He had thought it clearly improper to borrow someone's good coat, and since the robes were obviously for use he took one of them. It was also the right colour for prowling. He managed to search the whole house undetected without encountering a single soul, and without seeing very much at all beyond the shadows. He would have left at that point but his nose picked up a warm, sweet smell as if of exotic flowers which he followed to a door beneath the stairs. As he opened the door a wisp of smoke drifted out on the half-light and he peered into what seemed to be a large basement. Pulling the hood over his head and face, he 148

slowly whispered his way down the stairs, into a small ante-room and towards an open door. Within an instant he was silently through the door and standing breathless at the back of a large room amidst a sinister collection of dark robed figures. He knew he was among witches but he knew very little else. Situation normal. It was shortly after this that he saw the Grand Master Ossipus engulfed in the accidental flames of his own tawdry head-dress. The assembled witches had turned to Whisper because, unbeknown to him, his terror had caused him to moan in a low monotone, his eyes glazed and unblinking. The strange disfigurement about his cheeks caused by the protruding splinters of glass suggested solidified ectoplasm, and the copious drippings about his mouth and chin indicated recent blood sacrifice. All in all, there was little doubt in the observers' minds that he was a living saint of the diabolic world. When they turned back to see what this man had done to their erstwhile, screaming Grand Master all residual doubt was removed and they fell to the floor at his feet, rending their robes and writhing their naked bodies, some of which weren't too well designed for writhing. It was something of a facer.

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Chapter Eleven
"There wasn't a single tattoo on the dead woman's body." said the Inspector across the desk from the psychiatrist. "We searched every part of her body and there wasn't the slightest hint!" "We?" The psychiatrist sought clarification to rid her head of a persisting image of rag-doll body; a dead, rag-doll body being pawed, mauled and tossed about by a group of men. "'We' as in 'the attending personnel' sense" the Inspector reassured her with a controlled sigh - to indicate that the psychiatrist's unexpressed concerns had already caused him some offence. "A female surgeon conducted the actual, 'hands on' search. It didn't take very long and, 'though entirely thorough, it offered little insult to the body." "So that's that!" She sought a quick closure to the conversation. "It is now." The policeman confirmed, "For the moment, at least " She smiled politely, without managing to convey any meaning at all. The policeman remained in his seat, eyes cast down, and seemed a little preoccupied with other matters which were clearly presenting themselves to him for discussion - internally; matters which seemed to cause him some unease. "I did, of course, extend my enquiries to all those individuals currently associated with my investigation fortunately still very few at the moment ." "But who I thought you still don't know who she is, so ?" "Not a clue who she is!" he said, disclosing, at last, some repressed frustration and anger. "Connections with these 'others' are a little tenuous - circumstantial, possible 150

witnesses, anyone within a mile radius but a shot in the dark really they were the only real leads we had not really 'leads' though in any technical sense." "Still " continued the psychiatrist who seemed to be enjoying his apparent discomfort. A capacity for joy, confidence, frivolity and whimsy seemed to have sparked to life in her. " It's an incredible coincidence though two 'blank' bodies, in such a small piece of space and time you don't think they're growing on trees, do you?" "No" replied the Inspector calmly, "I think little, woodland creatures are cloning them from back-copies of The fucking Naturist!" The psychiatrist flushed, but it wasn't fear or anger, or any kind of offence. It was the familiar heat that had recently been loosed into her body like a rebel army always rallying to the sound of raw sex, wherever and whenever it found expression. "So, I take it that your wider enquiries were equally fruitless?" "You take it correctly" he replied with increasing irritability, " unless you would regard scorn, abuse, physical attacks and written complaints to senior Officers as 'fruit' ugly fucking fruit, I'd call it!" " Soyes, quite!" "Do you know " He was on a roll, and it all had to bleed out. Thankfully the policeman was terse by nature so the bleeding would be brief. " Do you know that however you approach it; however tactful; however pleasant and apologetic; no matter how much you explain There is no easy way to search for body tattoos especially without real grounds for suspicion" "I suppose not." She offered understanding 'though part of her wanted to induce yet more profanity. "Even for trained psychiatrists, interviews can be pernicious beasts."

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He glanced up at her briefly, with the scorn of someone who claimed greater intimacy with pernicious beasts. " And the men were the fucking worst!" he continued. She loved that vagabond, lawless word, but stepped in immediately to draw a curtain across the male tattoo, and steer the policeman away from the experience - the series of interviews - which clearly had not gone well. There were clearly deep scars - suggesting perhaps a little too much intimacy with the discovered beasts. "It does seem to have been a rather reckless stab in the dark though." She said, "As you said, you had no real reason to assume any connection between Gabbler and/or the mysterious dead girl, and/or these other, unidentified persons on the periphery of your investigation?" "Easy for you to say but in this type of case where you have nothing at all - you have to push at unlikely doors; explore every possible avenue." "But the tattoo has proved a definite cul-de-sac?" "For the moment for that side of the investigation" the policeman confirmed and then slowly lifted his eyes from the table and levelled them across at her like pistols. "I don't suppose you have any tattoos?" he asked with an expertise salvaged from the debris of all those troublesome interviews. She knew the answer and was torn but didn't answer. __________________________

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Chapter Eleven.2
Thumper had been in a state of hot pursuit for a short while, but this had now settled down to the more civilized pace of Hunt the Thimble. Mr.Smith and the good wife had officially slipped through their fingers. Any further attempts at description or metaphor had been expunged from the police statements for fear of causing linguistic offence to the investigating officer, the erudite Mr. Jenkins. In truth the hot pursuit had been hot only in the manner of a man who has eaten a spoonful of serious chilli powder mistaken for sherbet there was certainly much, frantic dashing-about but its character was an inappropriate mix of apoplexy, rage and bewilderment. The trail had quickly gone cold after a few short hours on the edge of town. With no positive leads police cars had, one after another, drawn to a stop at the foot of the surrounding moorland. There they hesitated - like the Fellowship of the Ring, gazing out over the badlands uncertain whether to proceed without the support of at least one wizard and a bad-tempered warrior of indeterminate birthright. Thumper himself was back at base and fitted the bill of neither missing hero, and so, reluctantly, the chase was abandoned as night fell and the inclement weather closed in. Good, solid police work demanded that Thumper return to the basics, and so he made preparations to interview all the known associates of the two fugitives. This amounted, of course, to just the three Brewholder, Jazz, and Whisper and none could be described as being well-disposed or friendly towards the two felons. It was unlikely to be a fruitful exercise. Previous encounters with Brewholder and Whisper led Thumper to doubt they were on his side. Whatever side that was? He doubted that they 153

were actually on anyones side. And, God Knows, of all things, Thumper hated Mavericks. Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. he muttered out loud to himself a propos nothing he could identify or understand. He flinched a little and swept a hooded glance about the room to see if anyone had heard. He was completely sceptical and dismissive of such things as possession but he was equally aware, within himself, of an encroaching persona. This entity was formed from his firm belief in expeditious justice; which relied on a common understanding; which, in turn, was dependant on the certainty of meaning; and meaning resided in words and language. It was an awfully burdensome responsibility to be the Protector of meaning, requiring an unequivocal response to all who might seek to pervert it. Recently he was starting to develop mannerisms and speech patterns to flesh out the developing persona. When he looked in the mirror he sometimes saw only the figure of a god-fearing sheriff from a frontier town. What was most disturbing about this is the fact that Thumper did not find it disturbing at all. There ya go. he said with a definite drawl, and a similarly surreptitious check to ensure he had not been overheard. As he completed arrangements for the interviews another slice of good, solid police work intervened to offer up an alternative line of investigation. There had been a report from a local farmer of a theft of chickens. While such an incident might normally be considered trivial its significance lay in the fact that there had been no such thefts previously in living memory. And since the farm was isolated in open country, and in the absence of any known nomadic tribes, the conclusion was drawn that there must be some desperate people loose in the hills; desperate but obviously unused to life in the natural world. It was clearly

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a very low form of rustling but Thumper was immediately on his way. It wasnt a long drive but he did not get back until well after dark. Judging by his demeanour the day had borne little fruit, and what fruit there had been appeared to have left a very sour taste. Dead men dont speak as every policeman knew and this was also true of chickens; more so because even live chickens dont speak! He took to his bed fairly immediately, after a strong drink and a grimace. And the following morning, as he set off in the car to interview Brewholder, it was clear that the dark preoccupations had still not left him. All this having been said, of course, it is important to observe that we are identifying here a fairly subtle change in his manner. He was always been a miserable bastard on the verge of disgorging his discomforting bile. There remained, however, the lingering concern that for Thumper, with his outrageous sensitivity to language, meeting farmers or country folk was a risk too far ooh aah. ooh aah? Brewholder. on the other hand, would be a different kettle of smoked salmon. Would you like a drink, Inspector? Its a little early for me, sir. I meant coffee or tea. I wasnt offering alcohol! Brewholder replied, clearly insulted at the inference that it was not too early for him. Alcohol has already visited too much misfortune on my life. If you want strong drink you will have to look for it elsewhere. No! Thumper insisted,controlling himself, As I said, I dont want any strong drink, or alcohol. What about tea or coffee? Thumper paused to consider this. He cast a glance around the room and could see no evidence of tea or coffee. He also knew, from the 15 minutes it had taken him to gain entrance, that Brewholder was entirely without secretarial or clerical support and without an essential degree of 155

energy, alacrity or dexterity. The production of either tea or coffee would clearly involve encounters with both mystery and risk, for neither of which did Thumper have time. No, thank you very much. he said, I think I would rather press on. On let us press, then! agreed Brewholder, with intentional humour. Thumper never saw it coming and was, in consequence, stunned. Like an unexpected clip on the back of the head the moment had passed before he had had chance to realise what abuse the man had visited upon the language. The uncertainty and unease had been logged subconsciously as a warning but at the operating level all continued normally. I dont suppose that you have seen your Mr.Smith since he made off with Mrs.Roundwood? he asked. I thought that it was Mrs.Roundwood that made off with him? Yes, quite. Eventually that is true but, initially, we suspect he may have been involved in a plot to effect her release from the cell in which we were holding her. Are you talking to me now as a lawyer or as a witness? Im talking to you as a policeman. Thumper was not cut out for this work. He was already getting edgy. All of his conversations were like attempts to release stale sellotape from the roll no matter how carefully he tried the tape always aborted by skewing off at an angle. No. explained Brewholder, Are you asking me the question as a lawyer or a witness? Which am I? Youre clearly both. In which case, do you have any evidence of Mr.Smiths involvement in the alleged plot to free Mrs.Roundwood? No. said Thumper, without a single blink, such was his focus on keeping calm, Thats why we only suspect his involvement in the alleged plot. 156

Then I propose, concluded Brewholder, that in the absence of any such evidence to support your expressed suspicions we proceed for the moment on the logical presumption that Mr.Smith has been kidnapped by Mrs.Roundwood possibly as a hostage. The familiar jangling had started in Thumpers head. It was like a muffled barrel-organ or harmonium, always played too slow and too sinister. It was as if his mind were the machinery on which the music was being played and, under the strain, it was slowing down making nonsense of the tune. Had there been lyrics there would have been no hope for him. It had been exactly the same yesterday at Halehearty Farm where things had also started badly. He had driven into four inches of mud and a slavering dog. The mud offered no prospect of escape from the dog and the dog excitedly assumed it had an uncontested right to savage any visitor. Fortunately the dogs appetite was so voracious that it could not wait Thumpers exit from the car and it pawed, barked and snapped at his door. Although it was not immediately apparent from appearance, evolution had equipped the policeman with greater intelligence than the dog. He consequently opened the door with sufficient surprise and violence that he laid the dog low with one sickening blow. The once-vicious animal lay concussed in the mud, struggling for breath against either the blood or the mud gathering in its nose. Farmer Galbraith, arriving from nowhere, swept up the poor beast in his arms and shook the beginnings of life back into it. Thumper could not even guess just how much or how little the farmer had seen. While this may not normally have concerned him he could not but be impressed with the farmers clear affection for the dog and, perhaps more importantly, the sheer strength and stature of

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the man evident in the way he scooped up the animal without any real suggestion of effort. What in Gods name happened? he asked Thumper with a decidedly donnish timbre in his voice. Being a policeman, Thumper saw the potential ambush in the question since he was unclear just how much the questioner already knew. Are you farmer Galbraith? asked Thumper, in the policemans manner, electing for the simple but safe sidestep. Of course Im farmer bloody Galbraith! Who do you think I am St.Francis of bloody Assisi Im Inspector Jenkins. said Thumper. The rather poor start was deteriorating faster than he had hoped and he knew that there was potentially worse to follow. He had decided to introduce a note of authority into proceedings and steer matters towards calmer waters. Pleased to meet you, Inspector. Now, what in Gods name happened to my dog! This was a question which was not going to go away. And the mountain of a man demanding the answer was completely undaunted by Thumpers official standing. Aside of this, the farmer was also assured and confident in all aspects - intellectually, emotionally and physically. The farmer Thumper had been expecting was Toad of Toad Hall but this chap was more like a South African wingforward. Im a little unsure what happened, he began, but I am forced to assume the dog walked into the door as I was opening it. I didnt really see it until I got out of the car, and there it was lying on the ground. Impossible! the farmer barked, She not it (he emphasised) she normally makes enough noise to wake the dead when strangers turn up. Impossible it may be, but I have no other explanation. Thumper was growing in confidence as the 158

farmers explosion of verbal energy failed to be converted into violence. If you can give me a more likely account of what happened Id be happy to hear it otherwise I am as much in the dark as you are. The farmer grunted unhappily but his fuse was now damping down and, in his arms, the bitch was slowly recovering, casting a baleful and knowing eye in the direction of the policeman. I wouldnt want to hurt the animal for all the world. Thumper sought to close the matter, as an improbable calm began to settle between them. Youd better come on in, then. said the farmer striding towards the front door of the house. Realising he couldnt get to his keys he turned to hand the ailing dog to Thumper to hold. Can you just take hold of Atalanta? he asked, passing the dog into Thumpers arms, as he reached into his pocket for his keys. Be careful with her! Dont fall her. Strike one! Thumper felt the slight burn behind his eyes and a tingle in his arms as a fidgety restlessness suddenly seized him. It all came too closely upon his previous anxieties but he wrestled to control the impulse. Dont drop her, you mean. he corrected the farmer with tortuous pleasantness. Of course confirmed the farmer, unaware of the need for clarification, Shes probably still a little concussed. Strike two! The combinations seemed to be coming thick and fast now as Thumper felt himself sway back momentarily with the impact of the second abuse. It was fortuitous that his hands and arms were fully occupied holding the dog. Suffering from concussion I think you mean. What? I dont believe there is a verb to concuss just the noun concussion 159

Strike three saw Thumper spread-eagle on the floor with a pain in his groin and a small carpet burn on his cheekbone. The mammoth farmer was helping him to his feet and looking to his wounds. Thumper had no idea if he had blacked-out or, if he had, for how long he had been unconscious but he noted that Atalanta was now fully recovered and standing over him with what looked like a smile across her face panting fiercely like a man desperately trying to hold back his giggling. I must get that step fixed. the farmer apologised, Youre not the first to fall foul of it! Or should I say .the first to drop foul of it!? A wave of threat and uncertainty washed over him and Thumper fought back a touch of nausea erupting in his throat. He was clearly a little concussed. Thumper shook his head to dislodge the memory and flapped vaguely at his eyebrows as if brushing away a troublesome mosquito. Brewholder loomed largely back into view with an inquisitive expression on his face. Are you feeling alright, Inspector he asked. Yes, Im fine. So where were we? I am well aware were I was, and am. But Im less certain about where youve been and are. There was nothing technically wrong with the sentence, thought Thumper, but it was a mess; a total fucking lino-cut, beer mat! On another day.but today. I must warn you he started. I very much dont think so. Brewholder interrupted. The construction of the sentences was getting worse. It was as if the lawyer was taunting him. I believe you are here to seek my help and you are very much unlikely to receive it unless you discover a little more deference and considerably more courtesy! Now, what exactly is it you want? 160

Thumper wanted out and he wanted it now. He needed gardening leave but he was not about to get it. He wanted the buzzing in his head to stop and the flexing of his fists to find a peaceful purpose. He just wanted to be in control of himself and situations for predictable lengths of time. For the alcoholic it was one day at a time but for the mentally besieged it was one single detail at a time. Have you seen Mr.Smith since his disappearance? And do you have any idea where he might have gone? No. I havent seen Mr.Smith, or his sister, and when I do see him again I intend to have sharp words with him. Not only has he left me stranded without any office support but he has also robbed me of a very important case remembering his earlier defence of Mr.Smith, .although this may all have been entirely against his will and under the irresistible pressure of Mrs. Roundwood. Who is also your client? Thumper reminded him. Yes, quite. the lawyer spluttered, So many unanswered questions! And I fear that they will remain so until you boys in blue track them down, and possibly rescue them from whatever crise de tete had possessed one or both of them. He sat back and rested, pleased with his recovery. He was happy that he had covered everything; revealed nothing and thrown the ball back into the Inspectors court. Why would you be seeing his sister? asked the Inspector, dredging up an apparently inconsequential item that had surprised and interested him. He felt stability and control returning to him. I do believe I actually said that I had not seen his sister. the lawyer fell back on his practised art, operating almost instinctively, casually. Yes, but the very mention of the sister implied that there was some expectation on your part that you might have seen her in the normal course of events. 161

No. I am afraid you have misunderstood. the lawyer measured this exactly as a bald response. What! Thumper said, squashing the scream of indignation, affront and frustration. He had been left nowhere to go, and that was the last thing he needed just as he was developing a clear sense of direction and purpose. I clearly failed to mention also that neither have seen his mother, his father or his brother who has extra digits on his left hand and his right foot. And why is that? Oh, I dont know. Evolutions a funny fish! No.I mean why do you mention them now when you didnt mention them then I didnt think it was important until you showed such avid interest in the sister. I thought Id better come clean on all the other Smith people I hadnt seen. But I must admit, even now, this only represents a fraction of the family though I suspect that many of the ones I havent mentioned may be just inventions. Mr.Smith was unreliable in such matters. Thumper was tired, fed up and angry but realised he was not likely to get any further. He was grateful that he had managed to retain his composure. Clearly there is nothing you can add to our investigation, Mr.Brewholder, so Ill just thank you for your time and get on my way. If you do see or hear from any body Id be obliged if you would let me know. Thumper feared the prospect but needed one more foray into the quagmire, I dont suppose you know where I might find his sister, or any of his family? Fraid not, Inspector. Mr.Smith managed all Personnel details for the office. And since he was the only member of staff I dont think he kept any records he had all the details about himself in his head. Accounts? Accountants. 162

Wages? In cash. I did get receipts, should you wish to see them just a date, an amount and a signature. Arent there strict rules for solicitors in the conduct of the finances of their business? Oh, yes, of course there are. Do you think I am committing some offence, Inspector? Im certain you are. Remarkable. said Brewholder, You do appear, Inspector, to find certainty so easily, based on the merest scraps of information. Just a second ago you did not seem to know if there actually were any rules that I might be breaking and now. And now, Mr Brewholder!.and now.and now, Thumper voice was rising and racing but without any place to go. Inside the forces for calm were fighting ferociously to stopper the volcano by any means possible, ..and nowand now, Mr.Brewholder, youre just a fucking twat!. Sadly, it worked for Thumper .only just. In the playground it had usually been followed by tears and running away but, as an adult, Inspector Jenkins had found the courage to stand his ground. And sadly, it worked also for Brewholder. Habituating, as he did, a sophisticated circle, foul language with undertones of physical violence did it for him, in the absence of the stripping sister and did it for him immediately. Thumper first mistook the orgasmic grunt for a heart attack and rushed to help the dying man. The exploding lawyer, however, interpreted the Inspectors rush towards him as the expected physical violence and so he exploded again, and again, rolling his eyes and groaning in what was clearly orgasmic ecstasy. Thumper took this for an epileptic fit and wedged a letter opener between his teeth. There appeared to be no end in sight for this sexual roller-coaster ride until Jazz walked in and interpreted the scene in the way any sane man would. He leapt onto 163

Thumpers shoulder, like the athlete he was, and with the minimum of apparent movement flung the policeman across the room. As Thumper came to temporary rest against the far wall Jazz fell across him, and pinned his head across the bridge of his nose with a petrifying gesture either some arcane Japanese symbol or a rudimentary crucifix. This is Inspector Jenkins! Brewholder said, at last recovering his voice, desperate to arrest any further damage. And as Jazz relaxed his hold. he completed the introductions, .And this, Inspector, is my associate, Mr. Jazz Overton-Williams. The very man I want. said Thumper immediately as he climbed to his feet, Have you a room of your own somewhere where we can go to be private? The uncertainty on Jazzs face was turning to something far more ashen, causing even Thumper to sense something was wrong. Jazz listed to the right to look past Thumper at the recovering Brewholder whos breathing was returning to normal. Thumper observed the dumbshow and was about to explain about Brewholders epilepsy when the full extent of Jazzs ignorance finally dawned on him. He chuckled with the relief of seeing through the misunderstanding and advanced on Jazz offering his hand. Predictably Jazz found this even more unnerving but Thumper managed to prove his good offices before matters slipped into that final nosedive from which recovery was normally not possible. It was a nosedive Thumper knew well and, exceptionally, one he had managed to escape many, many times. Where a cat might keep a running tally on his lost lives Thumper failed to see his escapes from disaster as a resource in limited supply. He had not kept check on the number of lives he had used but he suspected that it was somewhere around the nine mark give or take! It was the give or take that perhaps really mattered; was he in 164

debit or credit. And what effect had farmer Galbraith had on this account? Thumpers very-real nosedive at the feet of the farmer had done him no permanent damage, but the nature of the accident was still a mystery to him. Still, the farmer had been considerate enough, and shown him to a hardbacked chair with a glass of brandy to aid recovery. A little nausea still remained and he was still being dogged by the revengeful bitch who was suffering a similar grogginess. Thumper had, once again, found the world a to be a strange and spiteful place and he had lost all enthusiasm for the investigation. He longed for his bed and a dark and curtained room. Are you feeling better now, Inspector? enquired the farmer, sat across the table from Thumper in a country kitchen that bore no evidence of a wife. My wife is the one for tendering to scratches, he continued, Im afraid my touch is a little more brutish. Yes. agreed Thumper, combining just the right balance of courtesy and knowing. Butpressing onI actually came about the report you made of the theft of chickens. Can you tell me a little more? Not really. I simply discovered three chickens were missing. And how do you know it was theft? Well it was a measured, if tired response, Id heard no murmurings of insurrection or escape among the chickens, and in any case escape would need help from the outside. Thumper didnt react to the sarcasm but just noted to himself that the man was not helping himself. And your wife? oh, she openly talks about insurrection all the time, and escape.but she hasnt got the balls!

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Although the remark was obviously intended as a joke Thumper couldnt dislodge the definite impression that the farmer would have preferred his wife to have balls. In Thumpers limited experience of women, he found that they always ended up with balls anyway, though normally they were the ones they had torn from their speechless and gasping husbands. No. Thumper sought to explain, I meant couldnt your wife have taken the chickens without thinking to tell you.. and killed them for some purpose. for some purpose? Cooking, I mean! .as opposed to which other purpose? The man was clearly determined not to help himself. He was going out of his way to annoy the Inspector and the Inspector had limited patience. He chose to avoid the difficulty. I can take it then that your wife had no part to play in this? The chickens were stolen. said the farmer, with some finality, You will really have to trust my judgement on this. I reported the fact purely for the public good and to alert others in the area. I do not expect you to recover the items or, God forbid, catch the felons. I really dont care if you believe me or not; or if you stay or go; or whatever else you dobut dont you dare abuse my wife! I have no wish whatsoever to abuse your wife. Thumper wasnt to know, that in upper-class, farming circles this was an insult. It might have passed off unnoticed in a less charged atmosphere but both parties seemed unusually excitable. So when Thumper woke up on his back under the table with a slight gash to his forehead he was less surprised than last time, but remained just as excited. The bitch, Atalanta, was licking the blood from his wound but not as an act of mercy, more as an act of possession. 166

Are you alright? comforted the farmer, You took another funny turn there. just passed spark right out! You must still be concussed. Thumpers eyes raged with contained fury as he lay glued to the spot and saw the bitchs smile widen into a full, mocking grin. He closed his eyes again and withdrew for a minute to reconsider and regroup. The lids of his eyes drew down a dark and comfortable veil to dim the immediate glare. I said, would you like a drink, Inspector? asked Jazz, for what appeared to be the second time. No, thanks. muttered Thumper with an awful sense of dj vu and a renewed determination to do what he had to do.quickly and without fuss or distraction ..and then get out. He wanted his bed and a dark, curtained room. Im trying to track down your Mr. Smith. He began at a gallop, As you are probably aware, he has absconded with one of your firms clients; one of my suspects, Mrs Roundwood? Yers. said Jazz in that slow, sort of strange way that suggests more than it says. Thumper momentarily winced but immediately decided that hed been down too many dark alleys recently and had lost his appetite, or his nerve. So, I suppose you cant shine any light on his disappearance, can you ?. This was not intended as a leading question but more a plea for a declaration of ignorance so that he could leave. immediately. No, I dont think I can Why couldnt the damn man be definite? thought Thumper. He didnt want an opinion he wanted his passport stamped and out of the door, to some place of temporary rest. Your senior, Brewholder, is quite definite that he hasnt seen Smith at allor even his sister. added Thumper, re-introducing the sister more for his own painful amusement and exorcism than anything else. 167

Well, he wouldnt would he? He didnt know she was his sister. Didnt know who was his sister? Thumper was sucked in before he was even aware he had been sucked in. The stripper! said Jazz, apparently without thought, but with clear malicious intent and somewhat paltry, improvised intelligence.She danced for him every week and took her clothes off.allegedly. And who alleges this? Im afraid I couldnt say. I am a lawyer, you know. I dont really want to get embroiled in unsubstantiated hearsay. I am sure you wouldnt, Mr.Overton-Williams, but perhaps you should wake up and smell the hearsay youre up to your fucking neck in hearsay at the moment! Well, began Jazz, having fully explored the culde-sac, I have actually seen her doing it myself entirely by accident, of course. I was only alerted to it by the music, you see,unmistakable as it is. And when I opened the door to see what.. well, you can imagine. I didnt want to embarrass the old man. He is my employer after all. So can you tell me what exactly went on? No. Im afraid I cant. My God, man, what do you take me for. There are some things that a man should be left towellwhatever.without the impertinence of interference. And this was one of those things, was it? It certainly was. How would you know, if you didnt watch? .dont tell me! I think I just caught another whiff of hearsay. Jazz was tired of the dance and ill-prepared for the exertions required. Ironically, Thumper shared this disaffection and had found himself in pursuit of the lawyer purely out of habit, and the particular incompetence of the 168

little man opposite him. Both, however, had lost track of where the conversation was heading, and to what purpose. And since Jazz was the one currently being oppressed it was he who found the motivation and the means to escape it. What has all this got to do with the whereabouts of Mr.Smith? he asked. In the first place, replied Thumper, unable to just throw the towel in, the sister might well know the whereabouts of Mr.Smith she may even be sheltering him. And, in the second place, we appear to have established that Brewholder has been lying to me .and God knows where that can of worms might lead us? Thumper winced at his mixed metaphor and was cursed to wonder whether this was a sudden lapse on his part or a chronic disability he had always had of which he had been previously ignorant. Brewholder wasnt lying. Jazz reassured him, He didnt know that the stripper was Mr.Smiths sister ..she wore different disguises every time she came. Im struggling to understand how you come to be so extraordinarily well-informed for a man who only caught sight of the incident briefly, by accident? Believe me, Jazz reassured him, even if you were to understand it, it would add nothing to the matter in hand. This was just the kind of reassurance Thumper needed. But, if Brewholder didnt know that the stripper was Mr.Smiths sister why was he moved to mention to me that he had not seen Mr.Smiths sister. Because obviously he hadnt! He might have seen the stripper, but he did not know that the stripper was Mr.Smiths sister. So who did he think the stripper was? He thought that the stripper was the stripper! and a different stripper each time! 169

So how did it enter his head that Mr.Smith even had a sister? I dont know. I cant be expected to know everything Youve given a good fucking impression up til now! Jazz was quelled but fortunately Thumper was exhausted. The Inspector knew that he was too experienced to be run around in circles like this - even by lawyers. But he seemed powerless to stop himself, not just today but over recent times generally ever since that bloody Roundwood woman. He knew his grip on it all was slipping, as if he was developing cramp in the muscles loosening and tightening the grip to try and trigger it back into normal life; stamping a foot to wake up a dead leg and invariably stamping too hard. It was inevitable that he would always stamp too hard. Are you sure youre well enough to drive? the strange farmer had asked him as he walked him to the car. Twice he had hit the mat and he remained none the wiser as to what it was that had felled him on either occasion. They may both have been accidents but Thumper was unconvinced. His suspicions rested on the farmer, but only because the evil bitch, Atalanta, wasnt tall enough to land a punch that hard. Although God knows she had motive enough burning away inside her like eastern European vodka. Thumper grunted a reassuring reply and climbed into the driving seat, slamming the door behind him. Are you sure youre sure, Inspector? Thumper winced. It was only occasional but the man had a gift for sneaking up on the language tripping it up just the kind of man Thumper took him to be! I realise it has been something of a wasted journey for you but chicken theft is just chicken theft nothing more.still

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Ill bid you good day and thanks. said Thumper offering his hand through the open window, and very uncharacteristically, accidentally dropping the car keys which he was holding. Instantly, like the rugby player he used to be, the farmer crouched forward to catch them and missed. Your keys! he warned, as they fell, Watch you dont fall them! As the farmer bent before the door to rescue the keys from the mud, Thumper opened the door with some accidental force and caught him heavily on the head, laying him low on the self same spot where he had felled his witless bitch earlier. Strike three it would seem. Whoops! said the Inspector as he retrieved his keys from the mud and drove away at a triumphant speed. At least, unlike the dog, the farmer was not panting and struggling for breath against the suffocating mud. In fact he was not moving at all. Beside him, Atalanta licked his lifeless face, too bewildered by worry and grief to react otherwise.

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Chapter Twelve
"Solved any more mysteries?" asked the nurse, standing on this occasion midway between the bed and the window - the unblemished silhouette of her body blurring slightly through the sun-bright of her tunic. If she wanted 'mystery' she could clearly add a little to her 'projections' the best 'mysteries' only ever required the slightest of blurring round the edges. "Solutions and mysteries seem to be interdependently ephemeral." He said, without any apparent serious thought, " Like the knot in the magician's rope. Once it's gone both mystery and solution go with it; or those pictures hidden in 3D Op art paintings. Once you have discovered and constructed the hidden image it is no longer a mystery and there is no longer a solution. For others though, the mystery remains." The nurse was somewhat unimpressed and not a little bored; perhaps subconsciously deflated, and didn't know whether to retreat towards the full glare of the window or hide her secrets in the shadows. "There are no magicians. There are just people who know a little more than you do." It sounded a little doleful and depressed but he appeared to be neither. It was unclear into which group he placed himself - those who know "just a little more" or those who continued to be surprised and amazed. "And do you know a little more than we do?" asked the psychiatrist, appearing unannounced at the door. "I suppose I would first have to know exactly how much you all know before I could answer that question. And, if you tell me, I would have to assess whether it is just stuff you've been told, stuff you've guessed, stuff you've made up, stuff you've misunderstood or simply the delusional rantings of someone desperate to parade the 172

breadth and depth of their knowing. If I choose to believe any of it, do I then know it? Or is the whole future of my own 'magic' hostage to the truth, or otherwise, of what I have accepted as knowledge. But then, is 'truth' entirely dependant on belief in which case is my own 'belief' sufficient to ensure the 'truth' and safeguard the 'magic' - is faith always enough, given that the 'truth' is ultimately inaccessible?" "And is that the process you are currently engaged in?" she had no illusions or hopes about "discoveries" flowing from the question. She wasn't even sure how much attention she had given to what he had just said. "Of course," Gabbler continued, "given my current state. I have so much to learn before I can construct any usable understanding. But the nature and purpose of my learning is undefined, and the path it takes is largely of it's own choosing - the next piece of learning consequential on the preceding piece of learning. Isn't that the way the world works?" "Indeed!" said the psychiatrist, "except for magicians whose modus operandi includes false trails and shortcuts." "I would need to know a great deal to be able to" "Indeed you would," the psychiatrist didn't believe that she was pursuing any real suspicions she had about Gabbler's truthfulness, but listening to her own voice almost detached - she couldn't miss the degree of emotional force. "Indeed you would, and acquiring such an amount of knowledge and such a degree of learning would be extraordinary. But concealing that degree of knowledge and learning would be a very simple matter - for a magician." "Clearly I can't be sure, but I don't think I'm a magician - and surely the weight and responsibility of so

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much knowledge would show in my demeanour, my behaviour, my face there would be leaks." "The problem with 'leaks' - and there have been 'leaks'; slight 'leaks' - is that they often provide no indication of the volume behind the 'leak', especially in the early stages." "I assure you that any suspicions you may have on that score are totally unfounded," the Gabbler was quite calm and not in the slightest ruffled by the questioning. "I suspect that I do have a remarkable intellect; some kind of natural ability but my knowledge is severely fractured and very limited still. I don't even know the names of anyone here, including the Inspector ! I don't even know your name!" " Nor whether I have any tattoos." She turned and left the room abruptly. She wasn't particularly angry and wasn't quite sure why she had done that but she was certain it had been the right thing to do. _______________________

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Chapter Twelve.2
In the disrobing room after the ritual there was a very joyous atmosphere. Much as they had been impressed by the severe degree of facial mutilation suffered by Whisper, the Coven were positively aghast to see the toll it had all taken on his lacerated trousers. They were left in no doubt whatsoever as to the physical demands and personal risks involved in mystical transport. Secret and hushed debated ensued as to the particular location of the power source that had ripped from him like the very God of vengeance itself. Eventually there was a convergence of opinion from the two major schools of thought; the first relying on intuition and the second employing rudimentary triangulation based on the areas of greatest damage. But noone doubted that he was using a very fierce and very focused form of sexual magic that had massed in his genitals like resentment, accumulated over many years. Whisper had never before achieved such great esteem even with such casual good fortune. Everyone fell about him like apostles to the mystery and, like any Messiah, he himself was quite properly slave to the mystery which had chosen to express itself through him. The attractive young lady basked in the reflected glow of their previous acquaintance. In the light of Whisper's new mystical identity, she was now able to reassess the significance of the very singular experience they had shared together. She knew now that she had been tested to a purpose, and could only hope that she had acquitted herself satisfactorily. She was hoping against hope that he had not taken permanent offence at the apparent coldness of their parting. The curtain now having been drawn before her eyes, she recalled that night again. She remembered again his lonely and violent battle against 175

the awesome power within him as he had wrestled with his intestines long into the night, very similar to a man being uncontrollably sick. Aware of the uncharitable assessment she made at the time, she forgave herself her human failings and her incomplete understanding. For Whisper the whole experience was still muddled in his mind and he focused solely on the one aspect that made it all worthwhile. Once again, the attractive young lady was stood smiling before him and, once again, she was reduced to her underwear having discarded her robe like everyone else. He fumbled with his words, like a two year old trying to assemble a model railway. The gaze spoke with sufficient eloquence, identifying the young lady as the "chosen one" whereupon she was instantly elevated from neophyte to Consort with immediate powers, influence and respect. Just as it had been for Whisper, this was for her also a landmark achievement. A wiser man might have reflected that their burgeoning relationship had already been infected with a very separate ambition, and a very separate concern to protect that ambition. But Whisper was in love. In the chill distance, beyond the bustle of adherents and devotees, the outgoing Grand Master was being disposed of by the senior officers. It was a ritual of more practical than religious significance as he was stripped, searched and dumped safely beneath the earth in a secret place. It was nothing more sinister than disposal since the deposed leader had suffered a fatal heart attack shortly after being engulfed by the flames. Arguably the author of the flames was indirectly responsible and since this was thought to be Whisper he could in some circumstances be considered a murderer. And rarely in the annals of criminal history do we find a man and wife both involved in entirely separate and unrelated careers in murder. And seemingly even more unlikely, the ineffectual Whisper appeared to have achieved such spectacular success, while his 176

emminently pragmatic wife, on the other hand, had fail so miserably. Although one suspects that the failure of the death, following the attempt, is more Whisper's failure than his wifes. A less shadowy man would have gorged himself at the poisoned dinner. Evidentially, however, Whisper was not a murderer since it is clearly impossible to establish any connection between him, albeit supercharged, and the source of the conflagration. Fortunately, those currently falling at his feet required no such proof since they had seen it with their own eyes. Logic dictates, however, that the nature of that kind of belief means that they could not be certain that their own eyes were their own eyes - or indeed eyes at all! But revealing this wrinkle to the disciples would only deepen the mystery for them and make it infinitely more beguiling. Once again Whisper found himself trapped in a spiral that had spun from another of his precipitous and thoughtless actions. This time it was working to his advantage, but further complications were soon to arise. Whisper and his Consort were approached by the remaining senior officers and certain matters were disclosed to them. There was Jessman, the Lord Prime Advisor, who would be Whisper's new right-hand man (or, perhaps, left-hand); and his two lieutenants Oscar (Master of the Rolls), and Casdan (Master of the Ritual). These three, together with himself, the Grand Master, (and also his new Consort, Jane) comprised the Cabinet. They controlled the coven. The coven itself was a Chapter of the Ancient and Original Order of Leppipus. And the whole Order was controlled by The Grand Great Good Master who was Leppipu the 303rd, (the Magus for short). Even wideawake, and with the help of a tape recorder Whisper had no hope of remembering these names, and in his present tired and euphoric state he was not even trying. His consort, on the other hand, with the reckless zeal of the newly177

promoted was working like Trojan. Naturally, much of this information was already known to her anyway. What was perculiar about this particular meeting was the fact Jessman, Oscar and Casdan retained their anonymity behind their official identities and masks, while Whisper, the new Grand Master, was naked to their view. Whisper was, however, blessed with a natural anonymity. For some this could be seen as the disability of blandness, which is the complete opposite of blindness you can see everybody but no-one can see you. Jane, his new consort, was similarly unprotected from the open glare but her identity was safely hidden behind her near-nakedness, beyond which no living man ever bothered to proceed. She would always remain unrecognised in any other context. The urgency and purpose of the meeting was then made clear to Whisper in a full briefing. What followed was the meat in the poisoned sandwich. Down the centuries there had been a splinter group of the Order of Leppipus who formed themselves into the Order of Total Absence. This new grouping arose out of extreme differences of opinion about which no credible record remains. Mirroring the schism in Heaven, the surviving belief reports the polarisation of good and evil; black magic and white magic. Whatever that original emnity, it had simply grown with time, eventually giving rise within the second Order of a prime objective to erradicate the original Order. So far, this aim had expressed itself through a number of very serious and bloody attacks. These had fortunately been periodic, and separated by decades. Each attack had failed but substantial recovery and regrouping had been required in the wake of each defeat. The evening's major disclosure was that the Order was once again under threat of immediate and serious attack. In manhandling the naked body of the deceased Grand Master, the disposing officers had discovered a 178

"marking" well-hidden on his inner thigh. It had been immediately recognised as the sign of the Order of Total Absence indicating the worst degree of enemy infiltration into their Order. Further searches through the man's belongs revealed nothing other than some cryptic indications that there was at least one other unidentified "spy" still operating in their midst. The gravity of the situation could not be overstated. Whisper took all of this like a child teetering towards sleep after too many hours on an an intemperate beach. Predictably, this visible indolence was interpreted as a power-drain from all external life support systems to enable the Grand Master to redirect all his available energies to the problem at hand. His impressive calm was very inspirational even though it comprised a heady cocktail of ignorance, disbelief and terminal fatigue. Jessman detailed the importance of Whisper's timely arrtival and intervention which clearly demonstrated the workings of a higher power (to whom all secrets were as incontinence displayed on washing lines). Any uncertainty in regard to his rightful succession was eradicated, and his immediate purpose was made clear. The moment brings forth the man; the arrow of Fate, aimed by the eyes of Wisdom and the constance of Destiny, had sought out their man. They were not to know that on this occasion the flight of the blessed arrow had been intercepted by an inept jaywalker in the grip of lust. Behind all the disclosures there appeared to be an assumption that Whisper, by some undeclared means, already knew what they were telling him. Either through navet or blinding insight (different sides of the same coin) Whispers new consort assumed the opposite. And Whisper, through it all, continued to bask in an invisible sun, bobbing peacefully on a lilo, on waves that he trusted would never threaten any kind of turbulence, not even for fun. Finally they revealed to him that the Magus himself, 179

Leppipu the 303rd, was to visit their next weekly ritual this coming Thursday and that, while they would normally regard this as the highlight of their year, they feared dire events. They were now under threat of sabotage ......probably assassinationpossibly even wholesale slaughter.. All looked to Whisper for reassurance and received only the blissful smile of a man temporarily parked in the land of pleasant imaginings..which lodges between waking and sleep. "Put our minds at rest!" they beseeched Whisper, which was an entirely reasonable request since that was clearly what they had done to him. As if in direct, and immediate, response Whisper slumped face forward into Janes lap, coming to rest in a somewhat indelicate position. And in this position he half-snored; halfwhispered into Janes crotch. All eyes were transfixed by the spectacle and locked upon its every move, torn between the attempt to understand and the simple enjoyment of the vicarious arousal. For Jane the arousal was less vicarious and far more actual. It is impossible to know whether it was as a consequence or as a distraction but very quickly she spoke. Will anyone be able to recognise The Magus.Leppipu the 303rd? As if choreographed to the millisecond all three sets of eyes lifted sharply from her crotch to her face where they held their gaze in the significant pause of confusion. They immediately thought of conduits and considered the internal pathway from vagina to mouth. As Whisper continued to burble and whisper down below, they chose to believe that clarity was being added, up above, by his consort. I beg your pardon..Master? said Jessman.

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I asked if anyone would be able to recognise the Magus. Will we be able to verify his, or her, identity? repeated Jane. The answer was, of course, No! but in forming the words in his mouth Jessman was immediately aware of the absurdity of the position. He started to blink and continued to do so, at increasing speeds, as he feverishly sought an answer that might not imply complete stupidity. When this kind of desperation hits, rather like the first Apache arrow in the side of the covered wagon, it rarely hits alone. Ah, I see your point, Master. floundered the Prime Advisor, ..of course, this will present a problem but any impostor would not know all of the secrets and codes, and. How do you know that? .and, indeed, it is something we all have to accept within the Order. None of us are known. Oscar and Casdan hereeither or both might well be impostors, or not impostors but simply, as themselves, infiltrators from the Order of Absence No were bloody not! objected the two accused, with considerable venom. Well, you would say that.. wouldnt you? reasoned Jessman, what else could you say..oh, its a fair cop, guv, just bring out the boys and eviscerate me? I dont see that it helps matters reduce the debate to the level of Music Hall! said Oscar, You cannot accuse us of guilt simply because we deny it!. Casdan agreed, with some more venom. I wasnt picking on you two in particular. said Jessman in a conciliatory manner, It might, indeed, be me. I might be the impostor or the traitor; the spy! This was a real facer. Oscar and Casdan eyed each other knowingly, betraying a degree of unease and concern.

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Obviously Im not! said Jessman, seeking to reassure them with a forceful degree of gusto. They were not, however, reassured. Its one thing to offer a defence to an accusation, argued Casdan, but its an entirely different matter to offer a defence in advance of an accusation. But it must have crossed your minds that.. Jessman began again. No! their unanimity was immediate and profound. But it could have crossed your mind that.. Jessman persisted in an attempt to develop his point. Ah! Oscar interrupted immediately, If we are to move the debate on to include all things that may have or might cross any of our minds. Oh for Heavens sake! Jessman slumped hopelessly into a chair. HEAVEN!!!? squealed the two together, before Jane intervened to end the infernal affair. I think I have my answer. she said, And now we must leave. Just one final question how many casualties were there on the the occasion of the last attack? There was only ever just the one death in the Order on each previous occasion and that was always the Grand Master. answered Oscar, Master of the Rolls. Collateral damage can be significant though outside of the Order. On the last occasion, I understand that fifty-six innocent bystanders died none of them, I believe, know of the existence of either Order. Sadly we have no knowledge of casualties on the other side since we dont know who they are in the first place, any demise is invisible to us. Good Night, gentlemen. she said, with an increasing authority, which she realised she was borrowing from her Master; a Master who had yet to learn that he was a very endangered species. ________________ 182

The sodium lamps shone like bleary-eyed drunks and cast light only as confetti to the wind. The glow buzzed about the tops of the lamp posts like haloes on dark candles. A Black Mass in celebration of the night. But Whisper transcended the murk. His night was garlanded with exploding stars and fanfares of imagined sunlight. He walked on air; giddy as a man fed on loaves and fishes. He hovered at the shoulder of the attractive young lady as he escorted her home, while she, at his side, bowed imperceptibly in the advance of his blessed step; an acolyte to his greatness. With all of the justice typical of a spiteful God, the mazy, meandering path of true love had been transmuted into a motorway; a motorway that by-passed all those fumbling, little places of carnal progress and sped him directly to the point where he was eternally revered. Whisper, of course, was not yet fully aware of this and remained purely grateful for any show of interest. His ministering angel had tended respectfully to his stigmata and had wrapped a generous bandage around his head and across the bridge of his nose. Effective though this was, it did rather give him the look of a man perpetually peeking over a perimeter fence. And the vacancy behind the eyes further suggested that this same perimeter fence might be circling a lunatic asylum, and could possibly do with being a foot higher. Some of those emerging from the ecstatic writhing had murmured of disappointment that Whispers wounds had not instantly healed themselves. They supposed that there was little to be impressed with in the trick of selfmutilation if the subject remained mutilated long after the the conclusion of the trick. The logic of the argument had led them to the concern that if this were to persist the coven would eventually be ruled by he or she of the greatest mutilation; the fewest limbs, or perhaps in the end, simply a severely-scarred torso. The possible escalation of such a 183

competition for power could lead to a level of unrestrained blood-letting that would cause even Satan himself to gag and regurgitate. Aside of which, there would eventually remain very few that were able-bodied among the Forces of Darkness. There had followed a moment of hysteria when counter-argument and excessive claims of loyalty raged wildly across the floor. Indeed some of the more feebleminded had already scourged themselves with their rope belts, and threatened digital abuse before being boomed into silence by the gong of Greteb as Oscar, Master of the Rolls, rose to his feet. Let the Master speak! he had bellowed, Cant you see how he disdains your petty squabbles. And, turning to Whisper, he had asked, Although we are unworthy, please give us the answer. Speak to us. Whisper was, of course, bereft of any answers but unaware that he was bereft. In consequence, he had made to apologise for the misunderstanding and explain the true circumstances of his perceived transcendence. Fortunately, Jane, the ministering angel, chose that moment to introduce the antiseptic to his naked wounds. And, predictably, the effect was to reduce his articulation to the same kind of cryptic babble as before through which only the vehemence could be discerned. As the cleansing agent bit deep and hard into the sensitivity of his wounds his eyes bulged , his whole face contorted and blazed, and he pummelled the ground with his fists. Thats good enough for me, Master! conceded the rebel, ring-leader in a trice and retreated to a safe distance. Rest, Master! interceded the master of the Rolls, Contain your anger for those more worthy of it! Leave these wretches to punish their own doubts. The ring-leader was moved to offer some form of defence in mitigation but felt he could not do so without moving closer to the fulminating master. Consequently, he 184

chose to accept the full weight of the sleight, and grudgingly abused himself where he stood, maintaining a watchful, weather eye on the Master for fear of more physical retribution. Peace was restored to Whisper in the form of a soothing towel, wet and warm as a kiss, which plopped across his face casting him into temporary darkness. And from the safety of his cover he heard feet beating their reverential retreat. And still he could feel Janes hand resting gently on the towel, caressing the fevered brow. It seemed to be the best of all possible outcomes. He was alone with the very object of his desire. __________________ She was under no illusions, of course, the man was an abject fool and spineless to boot. But in the world of the arcane how could she know all of the mysteries and eccentricities of its princes. After all, she conceded, St Francis of Assisi would have been a poor bet in a fist fight, and while the same could not be said of St.Peter there is little evidence of any urbane charm, wit or Savoir Faire. It was apparent that the Gods of whatever religion picked their teams by the same foreign logic by which wives choose husbands. She had not recognised him at first, she remembered as she dabbed his wounds, but the unlikely truth had forced itself upon her. Initially she fought against the possibility but ultimately could not mistake the vacancy; the barren landscape visible behind the eyes; the floodlights on but no players on the pitch; no crowd on the terraces. And, in that same instance, she glimpsed the greatness of the man; bereft of everything but the sacred power. It had always been clear to her that the immensity of that power would be so all-consuming that it would take 185

over the whole of the man, banishing from his being all other elements of normal life. In particular she hoped that his sexual urges had been thus banished since, real though her adoration was, she did find him physically repulsive. Reflecting, however, on their previous meeting it had occurred to her that she had been somehow chosen. And his current behaviour rather confirmed that view. She was clearly concerned nevertheless to detect some blurring on his part between the physical and the spiritual. She was aware that in the coven spirituality was achieved through the physical but she always thought that that was confined to the ritual. She really had very little desire for such excesses outside of a ceremonial context, especially with people who were unattractive. But a magician is a magician every hour of the day, and how can you stop a magician! She had long known that if you cannot avoid your fate you should embrace it fully, and in that way derive some virtue from it. Her position was clear. Arriving home she did not hesitate but to invite him in, and settle him on the couch in front of a real fake fire with a tumbler of whisky. Briefly, she read the undeniable expectation in his eyes. Turning down the light a little, she retired to an adjoining room and looked through the darkness to her reflection in the mirror. Without effort she brought the seductress to her face and smiled like the Devil, peeling off most of her clothes until she appeared available in the manner of something gift-wrapped. A mere step took her back into the half-light of the fires glow as she leaned provocatively against the doorway, and made to speak in a whisper to Whisper. But at that moment the air was rent with an unrestrained snore punctuated thereafter by the predictable fart, both of which repeated and repeated. The magician slept. The cacophony of noise seemed sacrilegious in the gentle warmth of the room, and completely crushing to the efforts and anticipations of the sacrificial vamp. But 186

Whisper was unmoved, for the moment at least. Given the fierceness, regularity and direction of the expulsions at either end of his body, had he been pinned to the wall, he would have spun like a Catherine Wheel. That at least would have afforded some entertainment. ! For safetys sake she removed the constraining bandage from his face and left him to his uncertain sleep. _______________________

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Chapter Thirteen
It felt like drugs. His eyes were reluctant to open and there remained some slight dribble around his mouth; his face pressed like a lead weight into the pillow. He was lying face down in the bed, frozen in an apparent clinging position on a sheer rock face. As he cranked open his eyelid, the morning sun poured in like warm honey to lubricate the hesitancy in his every limb and moving part. He rolled, to right himself onto his back, and saw the psychiatrist emerge from his bathroom, clad only in her underwear, her dark hair unloosed and falling about her like sin. Their eyes met over a ten-metre chasm - his gaze still fogged with sleep - and if she smiled it was a smile as oblique and enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. With her doctor's coat flung casually over her shoulder she flounced out of the room, without a word, like a catwalk model, offering her hair to the breeze. And before he could adjust to the developing situation his lazy eyes were dragged back from the closing door by the sound of further footsteps. Returning his gaze, he found the nurse also emerging from the bathroom, naked, unashamed and unconcerned. She opened the window and let in some fresh air before turning to face the dumbfounded patient. She beamed a glorious, and very genuine, smile as she approached him and picked up her uniform from where it lay, unseen by him, on top of his bed. "Some night that was, eh?" she said as she drew her uniform about her and left through the same door as the psychiatrist. Gabbler failed to raise an enquiry; failed to recover sufficient composure. He sat up, cleared his eyes and his throat, rolled out the stiffness in his neck and briefly took stock. Unimpressed with the outcome, he climbed from his bed and trundled off to the bathroom for a more complete toilet. And the bathroom he found, to his 188

great satisfaction, was every bit as clean and pristine as the day before, with no evidence of the recent visitors remaining. As he emerged from the bathroom he saw, immediately, the psychiatrist sat in her usual place beside his bed awaiting his return. She was impeccably dressed and groomed in her normal manner, offering no indication of anything having changed. Gabbler began to consider whether he had imagined or dreamed the bizarre events that had greeted his "wakening". He climbed back into bed without a word and waited on the psychiatrist. "And how are you this morning?" she said, pleasantly but with a degree of professional concern. "A bit slow to come round this morning" he said, "I felt like I'd been drugged somehow?" The psychiatrist raised an eyebrow, almost as if she saw irony in his remark, but quickly realised he appeared genuinely confused. "Of course, you'd been drugged." she said, "and very heavily." Gabbler gave no indication that the confirmation helped his understanding at all. "You don't remember? You have no recollection of last night?" "No." he replied, having to admit the reality of the morning's events and desperately wishing he had even a flicker of recollection or understanding. "I was confused when I saw you but I we didn't ?" "You threw some kind of fit!" explained the psychiatrist,"You ranted and raved incessantly! You exploded you imploded you leapt about you cried, you laughed you fought with us before during and after we administered drugs and you were sick. This continued through a very exhausting night and some of the morning." "But there was no sex ?" She ignored the question. "You remember none of this?" "No. It must be the drugs." 189

"No, Gabbler, it's not the drugs! The drugs sedated you and sent you to sleep. They did nothing else." "Maybe I'm just a little slow this morning. Maybe it'll all come flooding back." "Maybe " said the psychiatrist, " but if it doesn't ? Maybe I should come back later when you've had some time." "Yes,that's probably best." said Gabbler, rather too formally. Already he was betraying some degree of introspection. A flickering indication of some internal investigation as he stared unexpectedly into the dark, silent abyss that was last night's black hole. The situation had radically changed. Perversely this was the black hole he could see - it was just black. _______________________

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Chapter Thirteen.2
Whisper awoke with the customary jolt of surprise and found himself astride, abreast and in some strange way around the sofa on which he had fallen asleep. Spread like an exhausted castaway he clung to the fin of an absent dolphin; in the doubtful pose of Nureyev falling from grace. His eyes betrayed the usual panic while his body remained pinned to the sofa by the succubus of residual sleep. He had no idea where he was and, like all frightened animals in such situations, presumed himself chameleon. Even the eventual appearance of the Angel Jane couldnt loosen the seized cogs of his memory machine. He knew, however, that the apparition was certainly an angel, principally because she was transparent and burned with an inner glow. Soon he would come to know that it was the effect of the electric fire in the curtained room passing through Janes diaphanous night-dress - but the original perception would always remain too strong to allow the intrusion of such unpromising reality. As Jane padded in and out of the light, Whisper caught occasional glimpses of the body beneath the veil. And when she raised the question of eating, his mind inexplicably catapulted him back to thoughts of Velma and the unforgettable eroticism of taste. Pressed beneath him at the groin, he could already feel himself reaching out with an uncontrollable hunger like the roots of a tree pushing against the resistant earth. Eggs and bacon? she had offered, and with such unwitting magic led him back to the portals of his usable mind from where he was eventually able to access his memory. For Proust it had been Madeleine cakes but for Whisper Eggs and bacon would always be the wormhole

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in his mind. In a stuttering flash the events of the previous night returned to him or at least most of them. There remained gaps and it was one of these gaps that ambushed him when he adjourned to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. Having forgotten the scars beneath his eyes, he gazed into the mirror to be suddenly confronted by the face of a monster; the demonic one from a Gothic rock band. He was naturally taken aback and must have screamed - very briefly which brought the ministering angel scurrying to his assistance. Whisper wore an expression of terrified bewilderment which fortunately looked to Jane like sporadic possession. In consequence she passed off the scream as the understandable burden of those gifted to straddle the Human and the Divine. Inside his head Whisper noted Janes lack of any reaction or surprise at his wounds. Immediately perturbed he wrestled with the suspicion that she may not be an angel after all, but something far more malevolent. Being profoundly confused, and not a little afraid, he ducked like a novice boxer when she reached out to comfort him. Luckily, he fell over, allowing Jane to believe he had simply collapsed as the possessing spirit left him. Further complications in the choreography were thankfully avoided as the kettle in the kitchen started to whistle and Jane rushed out to see to it. Fleetingly the question of the dying husband flashed into his mind again but the thought was too hot to hold and he lost it once more. Whisper regained his feet and quickly searched the rest of his body for signs of further abuse and was reassured that it was only his face that had been savagely mutilated. And with this reassurance came also the missing bits of his memory returning to him like disorientated stragglers in a Marathon race. He laboured briefly before putting all of the pieces back in the right order, arriving eventually at an understanding that comprised, in equal

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parts, of contentment, terror and the customary bewilderment. As a consequence, breakfast was a return to paradise as he shared the meal with his Angel, now fully recollected by him as only part heavenly but mainly physical. He had a fairly clear and complete remembrance of the previous night although it ended with the soft-fade of a PG film as he had fallen asleep. He was relatively confident that there had been no coming together. He weighed the possibility that his Angel might have taken advantage of him as he slept but thought this unlikely the logic of this judgement being entirely unaided by any assessment of his own desirability. Even with this fleeting distraction with the carnal, Whispers head was sat roundly in the clouds. He was transported, besotted, enchanted and only intermittently anaesthetised against the blissful pain he recognised as love. His condition was pathetically apparent as he watched Janes every movement; his eyes falling upon her like nervous fingers on antique china. All attempts at conversation, or even simple chat, died on his lips as they forever moved towards a word before abandoning it at the very last moment; undermined by its power to betray him. He was desperate to confirm that Janes understanding of what had happened over the previous night and day was broadly in line with his own grasp of events. He was desperate to know if there were bits he had forgotten ; blocked out of his conscious memory due to the horror of their import. He was desperate to know if there had been any shagging, or indeed any approximation of shagging; incompetent grabbings that might be construed as aspirations to shagging. He was even more desperate to know if there remained some prospect of shagging in the future, but above all he was desperate to know that there was some hope that she might reciprocate the love he had

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for her in spite of the possible threat of shagging in any of its real or imagined forms. Jane remained simply bemused, confused and largely preoccupied with the practicalities of what lay before them above and beyond the breakfast. The preparation of breakfast had fully occupied all of her mind and she remained unaware and unaffected by Whispers more esoteric transports. She was not troubled by any of the uncertainties that clouded Whispers sky since she had a full and clear recollection of all the happenings in her life, whether it be just the night before or those unsettling moments just following her emergence from the womb. And the clarity of her understanding extended beyond the mere fact and detail of the occurrence to the exact meaning. A very singular gift. The fact of the event and its meaning were one and the same. Subtleties and abstractions were merely the ghosts around the event that she couldnt see. This gift, if indeed it was a gift, enabled her to immediately engage her prime function which was.to act; to do; to respond..with full commitment and purpose. The downside, if indeed it was a downside, was that her understanding and her reaction were unencumbered by any depth of understanding. The benefit, if indeed it was a benefit, was that this left no room for time-consuming debate either with herself or with others. Fortunately, the saving grace, if indeed it is a saving grace, was that Jane was fully aware of this blind spot. She accepted that the ideas that were attachments to meaning were rather like auras or spectres, only some people could see.and she could not. And the consequence, if indeed it was the only consequence, was that she was attracted to such perceptive people; such magicians, like a moth to a flame. If it were sympathetically explained to her, she could reconstruct in her minds eye any abstract idea and invest it with the solid corporeality necessary to make it almost physical. But it would always lack some 194

dimensions. She could see the brightness and shape of the object but remain a little fuzzy about its purpose, or possibilities. This was a moth very much in danger of being consumed by the flame. Her relationship with Whisper was born of some deviant form of the above process. Bereft of any understanding of the intangibles of life, her world was inhabited by a far greater population of mysteries than is usual. And this is why she was drawn to the Old Religion. Not only was it a world viewed entirely through Mystery but it was also a world inhabited by a singular collection of friends and supporters who were all blessed with the glittering gift of seeing. And into this world Whisper had suddenly appeared as the most special and gifted of all, albeit with a style of behaviour and articulation that was unrelentingly eccentric. Almost by accident, her wagon had become hitched to his star. This was something akin to getting your hair stuck in the lift door after having so nearly secured the safety of the corridor. She recognised that she was being swept upwards, beyond her control. As for love? That would have to be explained to her in very vivid and sympathetic terms in order for her to construct the appropriate picture sadly, Whisper was still struggling with the first word; timid on his lips. He twitched like Houdinitrying to escape the chains of his own making. Did you sleep well? she asked, in her gentle manner, but Whisper was typically taken abackto have the silence eventually broken just when he was about to concede it was unbreakable. Very well indeed. he had replied without thinking, and immediately feared his answer implied that there had been skill involved, and that he had excelled. It was certainly true that he did excel at sleeping but any skill involved was of the order of the falling-off-a-chair skill. Fortunately the conversation galloped on ahead of his 195

dogged insecurity, under the strict direction of his organising angel. We have so little time and so much to do. she continued, and demonstrated the fact by lifting herself away from the table and heading into the bedroom to dress. Whisper swivelled in his chair and tracked her departure, watching her through the open door as she continued to dress and talk at the same time. I appreciate that you will be fully occupied preparing for the Special Rite this coming Thursday but you must feel free to use me in whatever way you wish. She was naked and oiling her body. Whisper was in a desperate skid as his bicycle went one way and his attention another. I know my limits and do not delude myself that I am fit for any great task but I will do anything! Just tell me what must be done and I will do it. I will work day and night, doing whatever is necessary. Whisper felt he should acknowledge the expressed commitment but saw it only as a terrifying burden. He was agog in a gaping silence, and the absence of any reply or comment eventually brought Jane out of the room to investigate. Standing just a matter of inches before him, dressed in what was clearly her underwear, she held her head at angles to his bemusement and stroked his hair. He discerned a smell that was the essential her, as it reached out through the powders and perfume like an exuberant child escaping a barrage of streamers and confetti. The hardcore of her reality never left her. She was always there. Sadly the same could not be said of Whisper. On far too many occasions he was just not all there. It was, however, this insubstantiality that Jane loved; the curse of a man with only one body but an unlimited number of places for it to be. Reassured that he was probably somewhere else, at least in part, Jane sauntered back into the bedroom and finished her dressing, leaving in her wake a final attempt at 196

urgency - The Special Rite is next Thursday, less than a week, remember!. To Whisper the deadline seemed a little familiar but the reason escaped him, as Jane sought again to rouse him from his introspection. Well? Right? she prompted him, unintentionally. Wellwright! Good God! Whisper recalled with a jerk of alarm, causing Jane to wonder whether it was ever acceptable for a satanist to offer up remarks to a specifically good God with or without irony. Fortunately her wondering did not take her a single pace beyond this momentary distraction. And the desired effect had been secured Whisper was well and truly jolted back into a working reality. Good God! he whimpered again, as he gave himself over to the involuntary movements of controlled, slow-burning panic. He was a man who couldnt remember whether or not he had left the oven on, and was struggling to assess the potential danger and damage if he had. He knew that he was well advanced in the arrangements for Wellwrights visit and, for all his shortcomings, he was a meticulous organiser. But the impact of recent events had been so thunderous and intoxicating that the mundane seemed somewhere back in the distance across several mythical rivers. He couldnt escape the dread possibility that his business affairs had been freewheeling ever onwards beyond his sight, and beyond his control while he was elsewhere. He couldnt be sure that he hadnt missed appointments or failed to take the appropriate action at the appropriate time; hed been caught ball-watching more accurately, breast-watching, among a range of otherwatchings. Its all on file! he said, offering reassurance more to himself than to Jane, Dates, people, places, events; the whole lot. I have it all on file!. He was significantly cheered by the apparent resurgence of his control and calmed himself for continued executive action. Jane herself 197

was also more reassured if a little surprised at Whispers decidedly bureaucratic approach to witchcraft. At worst she had occasionally feared the intrusion of laptop computers but not for a moment did she imagine filing cabinets. I would dearly love to stay, Jane, but I need to go and check on all of the arrangements before I do anything else at all. Any mistakes here would be unthinkable. Do you not want me to help you? her bitter disappointment was clear to even Whisper. But what was clearer to him was that they were somewhat at crosspurposes. Having recovered some peace in regard to Wellwright, he now recalled the other commitment to the so-called Special Rite. Beyond the bare fact of the Special Rite he remembered little, so he was entirely dependant on Jane. Because he remembered little of it he assumed its importance extended no further than its role in his blossoming romance with Jane. Wellwright still remained his most pressing concern, and not one he wanted to interfere with his plans for himself and Jane. Of course I want you to help me. he said, recovering the situation with surprising competence. But I need to be clear in my own mind of what we need to do before I can start directing you. Do you understand? She did and she said so. I will call you later today, he said. Jane agreed, and was pleased, although after he had left she did wonder whether the eventual call would come via telephone or through some more magical means. She determined to be alert to both possibilities. It was sadly the case that of all the magical places and states that Whisper now straddled, none of them appeared to have perfected the paper-less office.

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Chapter Fourteen
Gabbler had doubts about reality. He suspected that he always had had - but, necessarily, he had to also doubt the reality of the doubt. This time it was real - in a manner of speaking - he had 'concrete' events and persistent witnesses to testify to an occurrence in which he was central, but of which he had no knowledge or recollection. The psychiatrist seemed pointedly pleased to point out that this appeared to represent no significant change in his situation. But this was different, Gabbler had argued. The "immediately-before" and the "after" remained with him on this occasion, only an event in the middle had disappeared. This was not the case with his previous state. 'But clearly,' the psychiatrist observed, 'this was only a matter of size; simply a matter of time. The original amnesia was simply bigger and extended back to before he had memories, or consciousness. This more recent event seemed to be a slight, singular crack that closed almost as quickly as it opened; like an aftershock '. "The most interesting aspect," she continued "is the recurrence itself. You are potentially a serial amnesiac." "You mean there could be more 'aftershocks" "It could be a permanent condition," she speculated, with an unwarranted degree of whimsy Gabbler thought, "You could have a bad sector on your hard disk!" The image of the "hard disk" struck him as both prosaic and profound at the same time. It arrived complete, if a little hackneyed, but relative to his own condition it offered new and disturbing insights. Not only did it allow for blank patches in his memory but suggested the possibility of a non-specific malfunction that might be 199

jumbling his memories, or simply jumbling the means of accessing the right ones; a film edited in such a reckless fashion that it distorted meaning. Like an accidental magician concealing the most subtle sleights of hand behind the more obviously outrageous conceits. Truth may be ultimately inaccessible, but this was truth playing 'hide and seek'. "It could be a permanent condition," she speculated, with an unwarranted degree of whimsy Gabbler thought, "You could have a bad sector on your hard disk!" Gabbler seemed surprisingly unprepared to agree even this conclusion. The psychiatrist, however, was left to consider an array of alternative questions - did his refusal to concede that the events might now be 'serial events' reflect Gabbler's total confusion and uncertainty? Or did it indicate a greater insight on his part? Or, yet still, did it betray greater actual knowledge of the nature of one or both events? And while Gabbler still had doubts about reality, he similarly wrestled with questions about the psychiatrist's apparent calm and certainty - and, more acutely, the true extent of her knowledge and influence on all of these affairs; he considered ringmasters and clowns, prophets and priests, and the convenience of identities. He wondered why he had still not been given her name, or indeed anyone else's. He wondered if he had ever really sought their names. He wondered why he had been so closely confined - not only in terms of space but also in terms of the people he had met. And he also wondered if the tattoo would ever be found, and possibly where, and what impact on the various realities this might have. _______________________

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Chapter Fourteen.2
Bottles! said the waking wife reassembling the shards of a shattered dream into a hopeful body of evidence. We were trapped in bottles....on a shelf. We could see each other but........nothing else.. This was a belief rooted squarely in her mind; a belief that it had not been a dream. But any clear memory to support this had been irredeemably fractured in a strange, blank passage of time. There was no way of knowing how long they had been suspended in this state. All that had been returned to them was an incomplete jigsaw. Mr. Smiths experience of it all was entirely visceral and he had no troubling memory or knowledge of the mystery. Physically though, its signature was writ large all over him as a striking disfigurement; eyes like fishbowls and body like a fish. No real damage done, then?! Blake, the good Samaritan, busied himself about the country kitchen concocting a hearty breakfast under the synchronised gaze of his guests who sat patient as any domestic pets enslaved to the demands of their immediate needs - food, and maybe just a little something for a glossy coat. Or maybe not. It tasted just like bacon and egg, and very delicious it was too, as were all of the extra trimmings and the home-made jam. Mr.Smith and the good wife were lost for words to describe the feast but, then again, they were lost for words to describe any of the recent events so its difficult to draw any conclusions or reassurance from their beaming, sheepdog silence. Afterwards they slept for a while which is entirely to be expected following the exertions and stresses of the past few days. Blake completed his domestic chores and then retired to the study. And like all studies of this type it appeared to be fiercely private although, in truth, there was

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no evidence to confirm or even suggest this. The door, however, was firmly closed behind him. It was a small but beautiful house lifted from the cover of a childs book of Fairy Tales, and hidden in a private copse, behind gates, at the centre of modest wood. It was difficult to date the house since some of it was clearly very old, while other parts were probably modern additions and refinements. It had been conceived and realised with a designers eye and a manicurists precision giving it somewhat the appearance of a film set. It was, however, most definitely real and while the picture-book perfection was totally engaging it spoke most eloquently of obsession. Inside too the obsessive concern for authenticity and detail persisted, defying description beyond the words themselves - a large country kitchen cum dining room, a cosy lounge, a brown study, a generous stone-tiled hall with a comfortable staircase winding up to three plump bedrooms and a sparkling bathroom. It was that marvelous place from which the wolf had been banished forever and grandma still waited for her little, red grand-daughter. It was a place where one might curl up at the edges in front of a roaring fire with hot, buttered toast, away from the illtempered weather battering fruitlessly at the window. It was a place in the sun where the days were long and full of home-made lemonade and lazy, flying sounds muffled by the warmth. It was a lovely place. Underlying all of this there was a large cellar. When the good wife awoke again she gazed out through the bedroom window and, tracking the path of the sun, judged it to be early evening. Sadly she was unable to guess with any confidence which day it was. Sleep, in this place, was so profound and untroubled that she had lost all perception of time and the speed of its passing. Mr. Smith was totally unable to help her in this respect since for him the waking state was only discernible from the sleeping 202

state by the fact that his body was vertical rather than horizontal; like a childs doll his eyes opened and closed as his orientation changed. In terms of achieving ones destiny, however, one would have to say that Mr. Smith had come homesince he was, in all respects, completely suited to the Zombie state. His conversation had ever been sparse and now the loss of even those few words only acted to improve it. Slowly the good wife had managed to reassemble the events of her recent life into some kind of order to enable her understanding but the clarity of that understanding sometimes lacked depth. Like looking in a shop window on a sunny day, she was never quite sure if what she saw was actually there as a real object or simply a surface reflection from somewhere else. She was fairly certain of her crimes, her incarceration and her escape but she was less certain of the good fortune that had brought her to this succulent oasis. She had a dominant impression of peace but further consideration prompted her to reinterpret that as silence. Internal or external, all recent conversation had been entirely in her own voice. From Mr.Smith she expected as much but from their benefactor she could have expected more. And, having stumbled upon one strangeness, she was assailed by a succession of them, all of which drew her inevitably to the realisation that she knew nothing whatsoever about the man, Blake, and could not even bring him to mind....other than as a fact. She could not visualise him at all.......apart from the silver-black eyes and the wafting caress of a seductive scent. She knew also, however, that this was the most beautiful and comfortable place in the world where she had need of nothing. The saintly stranger had apparently brought them to Heaven briefly she feared he may have done so quite literally but immediately remembered that her ultimate destiny probably lay in the quite opposite direction, below. Suddenly she 203

instinctively knew that there was a below and, for the first time in her recent memory she felt unease. Bottles! she said again, We were trapped in bottles....on a shelf. We could see each other but........nothing else. Why do I keep thinking of the bottles?. Mr. Smith was not there to hear this which served to remind the good wife of his absence so she set off to retrieve him from his separate slumbers. Two minds are better than one she thought, and resisted the temptation to laugh out loud, an effort and a realisation which almost cast her into uncontrollable sobbing. Mr. Smith had managed to spring her once already, and from a much more substantial incarceration. If she could only find the necessary trigger he might yet do it again. Turning it over in her mind, she accepted that there was nothing particularly unusual about being trapped in bottles. It was the everyday syntax of dreams, Magritte, childrens literature and foreign films in general. Pop psychology could easily render such imaginings into the most plausible of sub-conscious murmurs; imprisonment within a domestic staple (milk bottle?), the milk all gone (no more suckling barren), the transparency of the prison/bottle life is elsewhere? The narrow bottle-neck ship in a bottle ..how on earth did she manage to get herself in there! More milk!.......or lessa bottle devoid of milk.. denied seminal fluid! Please dont kill me, the bottles were not milk bottles! squealed Mr. Smith, quietly snatching the good wife from her incipient hysteria. She had clearly been unaware of the fact that she had been thinking out loud as she struggled to wake Mr. Smith by shaking him by the neck. Where vigorous swinging on his throat had failed, the crescendo of insane panic in her voice had managed to wrest Mr. Smith from sleep, with far more alarm than he was used to. Momentarily he thought he saw the devil in her eyes but quickly realised he could see nothing in her 204

eyeswhich he found more alarming. It suggested there was probably nothing there to see. In particular she, herself, was not seeing; she was not seeing what she was doing to him! The unwarranted, and unintended attack, did have the benefit of rousing Mr. Smith from his detached state and returned him to the land of rational thought and speech although only in a pejorative sense; a Mr. Smith sense. The good wife offered neither apology nor explanation but merely sought to drag the limp man from his bed. She feared he was perpetually on the verge of lapsing back into sleep so she fought, in a purposeful way, to maintain his interest and attention; keep him alert. Forget the bottles. We have more important things to do. she said. Mr. Smith was grateful for the return of his throat but apprehensive about the more general assault on his body which had seen him manhandled from the security of his warm bed. The determined fire in her eyes indicated to him that the force behind her urgency was still an internal vision whose source had not been verified. In short he remained concerned that she might have snapped; that she might be dangerously mad; possibly even possessed. And let us not forget, Mr. Smith had a wealth of experience in tricking the devil from his sneaky, little hidey-holes. Yet he remained totally in the thrall of his enigmatic goddess, entirely overpowered by her, in every sense emotionally, intellectually and physically. Forget the bottles. We have more important things to do. she had said. What? his response seemed totally inadequate but was a fair reflection of the completeness of his ignorance. He understood neither the meaning nor the words but he would never ever forget the fucking bottles ! Ive had a vision it was the last thing he wanted to hear, well, not really a vision perhaps but more of a 205

strong feeling, perhaps even a vague memory?. He didnt consider this a good beginning for a quest. She seemed genuinely enthused by her own profound uncertainties. He adored her leadership and would always follow her to the ends of the earth butit was like discovering that your famed, red Indian scout has chronic tinitus. With all the trust of a man forever in love, he hoped she might eventually decide, by whatever arbitrary means, the true source and nature of the idea that was about to press them onward into even greater uncertainty. I keep getting this sense of unease. she continued, And whenever I get it, I imagine a cellar. I think there is a cellar, and I think we need to find it. Right. said Mr. Smith succinctly, not entirely convinced she had re-established firm control of the steering wheel; not entirely convinced that there was a steering wheel at all. You have no sense yourself? It had been intended as a question but Mr. Smith had courted failure for far too long. A ghoulish procession of all of his momentous stupidities paraded before his eyes like a jangling carnival of the macabre. As the hospital porter lurched like a rogue Zulu through the undergrowth of his mind, he suffered the single shiver of a tired break-dancer, and sighed like PoohBear. Are you alright? asked the good wife but it was far too big a question. Fine. said Smith, desperate at the moment to be asked to do no more than just follow. Right, just follow meand keep your wits about you. They left the quiet of the bedrooms for the quiet of the upstairs corridor. The pervasive quiet all through the house was not unusual, it was always like this. Blake, the beneficent stranger would appear from nowhere to provide for all of their needs and then disappear again. It was 206

clearly not as magical as that sounds since they were aware that he occupied his study almost all of the time. Were he to leave the house they were largely unaware of it but any such an event would be normal. Being entirely undisturbed in this fashion had advantages and disadvantages particularly with their present venture. While they felt free to explore, unobserved, they could never be certain of where their host was or when he might appear. Their ignorance of him, and the complete uncertainty of their circumstance, was also such that they had no idea of what might constitute an offence in this place. Nor could they guess at the seriousness and possible consequences of any such offence. Driven on, as she was, by her mission, none of this entered the good wifes mind long enough to stir any concerns. In truth, they knew so little that any amount of serious thought and discussion would have offered them no greater enlightenment. They arrived on the ground floor without encountering any difficulties or entertaining any misgivings but proceeded with some circumspection. They could not recall ever seeing any doors or stairs on the ground floor that might provide access to a lower floor. And a thorough search confirmed that there were no obvious indications of a cellar. Mr. Smith was content to admit defeat and move for a re-think and a new plan. It appeared to him to be the best course of action not least because the very thought of it had a soothing effect on his overall demeanor. An overall demeanour which he now noticed, for the first time, had a jagged, uncomfortable edge to it; like indigestion. The good wife, however, was never likely to give in so easily, even if it meant going beyond the pain of indigestion..as Whisper had already discovered. The good wife jumped up and down fairly vigorously on the soft carpeting causing some alarm for Mr. Smith who interpreted it as extreme petulance. He edged towards the door, expecting some clamorous 207

outburst which might ultimately convert into something more physical. Can you hear that? she eventually screamed, quietly. Mr. Smith thought that everybody in the neighbouring three counties could probably hear it but realised that he had probably missed the point. He simply nodded that he could hear it, allowing him to hide his ignorance of what exactly he was supposed to be hearing the jumping, the screaming or something else he clearly hadnt heard. He suspected it might be the last of these three and vainly hoped that whatever it was that he hadnt heard, it was something he could at least feign belief inand nothing to do with visions! The demonstration simply sought to illustrate that there was empty space beneath their feet evidenced apparently by the differing sound quality. The subtlety was lost on Mr.Smith but acknowledgement and agreement were not required of him the good wife was already developing the strategy. We know that there is a room below but we cant find the door. she said. But there has to be some way to get down there. The only room we have been unable to search his the studyso that must be where the door is..or the stairs, or whatever. After his years of attending to the endless arguments of Brewholder and the other legal masters, Mr. Smith could detect without difficulty that the logic was far from seamless. As always the seams were weakest where the risks were greatest thus explaining why trousers, if they were to split, always split across the backside. He was particularly concerned that her continuing uncertainty prevailed allowing her always to finish on the completely mysterious whatever. Had there been a fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse it would have been whatever - War, Destruction, Famine, Flood and Whatever.

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When he saw her in this mood, Mr. Smith struggled to recall what it was that had so enchanted and enslaved him just a few short days (or was it weeks) ago. And in that moments pause he realised that no words had ever passed between them to articulate the powerful love they had. This, in turn, forced him to consider that it may only have been himself that had the powerful love and the good wife was consumed by a powerful something-else. While this was clearly of concern to him he thought it a particularly bad time to ask her if she loved him. Apart from any other consideration, they were words he had never ever used before and was unsure whether or not he was equipped and qualified to use them. It is a unique man that can simply step up and drive a carriage with four in hand without any previous practice.. The good wife was oblivious to Mr. Smiths increasing drifts into the mute and distracted regions of his personality. She had decided that a direct approach to the study was likely to be counter-productive in that they were likely to be confronting Blake when they had little, or nothing, to confront him with. In pursuit of an alternative plan she was already dragging Mr. Smith out of the front door and towards the side of the house. Her purpose and, to a less enthusiastic degree, that of Mr. Smith was to undertake a reconnaissance of the study from the safety of the garden by peeping through the window. Mr. Smith remembered when he once enjoyed all of this surreptitious adventuring, and had been somewhat expert on the imaginative side of such diversions. But an immediate shiver and synchronised twitch reminded him that it had all ended very, very badly. With a sad sense of dj vu he found himself crawling on all fours in the wake of some preceding thighs and a bottom. And while the good wife had developed the mind and personality of an Amazon warrior she had retained the body of a gifted athlete. It was an alluring 209

combination though not currently being seen from its best angle. It clearly helped that the mysterious Blake was blessed with considerably more taste and dress-sense than the good wife and, bereft of any clothes of her own, she had gained from her dependence on him. For Mr. Smith, all of the old enchantments returned as he advanced his thoughts to the quandary of whether their relationship could ever survive outside of an Indiana Jones context. The good wife stopped quite suddenly and raised herself up. Mr. Smith failed to stop but still managed an equivalent degree of lift.and erection. For both it was an immediate but temporary distraction which, for differing reasons, left them both confused. The view from the window where Blake sat, in his study, would show only the sudden appearance of a womans head. At first the face appeared purposeful but then it was suddenly seized of an expression of undoubted surprise a sense of intrusion and unfathomable pleasure. The eyes widened, then lolled; the tongue made to ooze from the mouth and the whole head itself listed briefly to the side - like a sailboat adjusting for a wave. Composure was eventually restored and the head disappeared, to avoid being seen. It was impossible to say with what success. Outside the good wife turned to look at Mr. Smith. Again, he thought that this was not the moment to tell her he loved her but no other thoughts or words presented themselves. Maybe danger was the only true aphrodisiac for Mr. Smith. In which case it was fortunate that whenever he found danger he always seemed to be on his knees. His shape and demeanour had clearly been designed more for the horror film than the adventure film. A little more application is appropriate, I think. the good wife admonished him. And while he thought of baby oil, she edged herself upwards again towards the window but the ground beneath them opened up, and they fell in. 210

Bottles! was the first intelligible response from the good wife as she landed and rolled into an upright position..and saw the bottles. Mr. Smith was slower to recover from the fall and so heard the dread warning before hed had chance see anything. Like a recurring nightmare he expected to be cast back to the original trauma of being trapped inside a bottle.a particularly fragrant gin bottle, he remembered, in his case. Anxiety was already rising and racing through his body like a tsunami. The desperation in the good wifes exclamation was equally transparent and, unlike Mr. Smith, she was staring directly at the said bottles. And the bottles were indeed of a size that would comfortably accommodate a human being. By the time Mr. Smith had spotted the familiar bottles the good wife had found her feet and uncovered much more of the basements secrets. The room was as large as the house above it. And while it was clearly a cellar, it presented itself as a very clean, almost clinical environment. The large bottles were spread about the room randomly like pillars; like archaeological finds yet to be investigated and their purpose to be defined. And in between the bottles were computers and strange machines whose purpose was every bit as elusive as the sinister bottles. Bottles! said Mr. Smith after a short while. His ferocious panic was beginning to subside as he caught the faint smell of juniper and other things far sweeter, and warmer. Moving from one strange machine to the next, the good wife was similarly transported as her previous sense of alarm was subsumed by an overwhelming sense of wonder. Bottles, indeed. said a voice like music, and Blake strolled into view. He offered no rebuke and seemed genuinely relieved that they had, at last found their way down to this important room. Like an adventure game it

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was as if their discovery of this chamber was the prerequisite of the next stage of the game. Im glad I have found you here. he continued, for all the world making it sound like it actually was serendipity, I have been wanting to show you around properly, but I didnt want to burden you until you really were fully fit again. Theres so much I want to show you I doubt that therell ever be enough time! For all his sense of well-being, Mr. Smith ensured he held the nearest bottle firmly in his peripheral vision at all times. The good wife now felt less threatened by the bottles but was assailed by a hundred questions. Most of these concerned their present condition and circumstances, particularly in relation to the whereabouts of the police though this question was in her mind, it never seemed to achieve sufficient importance to find its way to her lips. Instead .. Who are you? she asked. Im Blake.surely you remember? Yes, I remember..but what are you? I vaguely remember you saying you were either a priest or the devil incarnate. I think your memory is a little bit damaged but, even so, it is possible that I could be both a priest and the devil incarnate. The good wife had no desire to be sucked into the esoteric; she had no appetite for the philosophic or the abstract. If she was going to be sucked anywhere she knew exactly where she would want to be sucked. I am trying to find out whether you are good or evil. she continued, almost childlike. In my experience that is dependant solely on whether we share the same aims and objectives; whether we share the same God.or not. Mr. Smith was starting to get twitchy as the conversation started to stray into the area of his expertise -

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although even he recognised the gulf in class from what he had been used to. This fellow was obviously a clever devil. I dont mean to be offensive or judgemental but that doesnt really help. I mean, you have been an angel to us but..we dont really understand why. said the good wife, dragging things back once more to the immediate, and the actual. Ah, yes, the why of it all? Blake began sounding more like a priest than ever. You are right, of course. We all have a purpose.even you two. And it is the alignment of your purpose with mine that will determine whether you come to regard me as good or evil. It will not be easy for you to decided since the issues are rarely clear but, then again, your current position is also.. casually ambiguous. You are in full flight from the forces of law and order for attempted murder but you seem to indicate no sense of guilt. Mr. Smith was about to interrupt and plead some degree of innocence but was anticipated and quelled by the clever devil. There were also a range of other, associated offences which we neednt dwell upon. And while I accept that it will not be easy for you to decide on the morality of the issues that will present themselves, you will be spared the pain of agonising over whether or not to join me in my purpose. You have, in fact, already joined me and, from that, there is no way backnot that you want to go back, of course. Indeed, where do you have that you can go back to? Mr. Smith and the good wife didnt even need to look at each other to measure their reactions. As strange as it all sounded, both understood exactly what Blake was saying, and knew themselves to be content and free of any anxiety physical, emotional or moral. The doubtful priest had clearly established complete control over them, they did not even contest or resist it. They felt totally at ease about the loss. And after all, there was the most beguiling 213

scent in the air. They even thought that they remembered it..but from where? And I will give you gifts. Blake continued in a voice that seemed to be building, almost imperceptibly; swelling with gradual excitement. Youve seen my machines. I will give you gifts and powers also. Remarkable gifts..beyond your wildest imaginings. You will be invisible whenever you want to be invisible, and come and go as you please.unseen. You will have access, at all times, to my voice in your head with advice; with instruction; to answer questions; to ask for my help. And you will have control over time, other people and situations albeit for only a matter of minutes. And there could be more! For I have a purpose! And this purpose is now your purpose also. It is the only purpose; the one true purpose. It concerns one who is coming imminently. And he has powers also; great powers. And he has a purpose too; a fearsome and grand purpose. And he has followers too; many more followers than just the two of you. And his coming has been foretold and his arrival will be known. You asked me if I am good or evil. While I may always remain uncertain on the precision of any such distinction, you must be aware that there is to be a great battle between those two forces; good and evil. And that struggle will be cataclysmic; the armies of one ranged against the armies of the other though, in this case, the numbers may be relatively small. It is my purpose; it is our purpose to save the world! Dont ask from who! he snapped again, indicating a degree of frustration, identities are difficult to pin down but he will make himself known, and we must be ready. Thankfully I know the time, and the place. Fear not, the World will be saved! though there will be a need for someinvasive surgery.to cut out the rotten bits.

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Mr. Smith and the good wife felt quite stirred by the prospect and somewhat proud to be involved. The gifts and powers they had been promised were dizzyingly exciting and their adjusted demeanour seemed to have blessed them with an impressive sang-froid, competence and confidence. They assumed it was the direct consequence of being chosen. And why did you choose us? asked the good wife. You were derelict and forlorn, in a ditch at the side of the road, covered in the blood of a chicken, and dressed for a garden party against the teeth of a biting wind. I didnt think anyone would miss youand God knows, you had a dire need to be chosen!

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Chapter Fifteen
The Inspector sat across the desk from the Psychiatrist, in her small office, and intermittently danced his blinking gaze across the furniture and fittings like a desperate fly escaping the final death throes of the deadly spray. He had clearly lost heart, but the 'loss' of such a vital organ seemed to have spread depression and dismay to all his other faculties. The psychiatrist recognised the tumbling effect of the snowball; the crumbling effect of "No progress at all, then?" she asked. On what?" "Our man, your woman, anything ?" It was unclear whether she was adopting the required professional neutrality, or whether there was some other game afoot. For apparently different reasons, neither the Inspector nor Gabbler had provided her with any wealth of information surrounding the pertinent events. It would, therefore, be logical for her to assume that she had, in consequence, no information to offer them - not even sufficient on which to base any speculations. And both had demonstrated unconcerned ignorance of her gifts and talents "I've battered and badgered and squeezed everyone remotely connected to this case and got back nothing nothing but reflected grief!" "Letting off firearms in confined spaces is always a very dangerous ploy especially for the person doing the firing." He looked at her in horror at the suggestion. "It's an analogy, Inspector, a metaphor. I wasn't suggested you had been loosing canons at suspects!" He cranked his dropped jaw back up into a sensible position. But he was a little too fragile for homilies that 216

sought to question his competence, or foretell disastrous consequences. He craned himself up and out of the chair to lean on the desk, and into her eyes. "It's only here, among yourselves, that I've been somewhat more 'sensitive' in my approach. Maybe I have been squeezing and badgering in the wrong places." She did not flinch and remained unimpressed by the implied threat. Reminiscent of all his recent experience, the Inspector's piercing gaze was reflected back to him, with increased power and focus. And those same, recent setbacks seemed to have conditioned him to expect this consequence. The psychiatrist knew this, of course. It was her job; her gift; her talent. "I want you to sit back down, Inspector, and rest your hands in your lap, and your feet flat on the ground. And I want you to relax. I want you to breath deeply and relax. It is not important whether your eyes are open or close. Just relax " Within a very short while the Inspector was sitting comfortable and relaxed, in a mild hypnotic state. Once the psychiatrist judged him to be sufficiently 'under' she reassured herself of his persisting health and mental acuity by confirming he still knew who and where he was. Thereafter she feasted herself on a range of questions that sought to clarify the areas of doubt; the concerns she had about any concealment on the Inspector's part.. She learnt little that she did not either know already, or was of any significant help to her. "The fire?" "Destroyed the Old Hotel, eventually." The Inspector said, " Everyone and everything seemd to confirm that it was started by natural causes - 'though there were totally unconfirmed reports of gunfire - this was probably the ricochets and minor bangs that escape from any big fire." "And any connection with Gabbler?" 217

"Can't establish any connection at all - forensically or in any other way. That doesn't mean, of course, that there is no connection." The greatest surprise for her appeared to surround discoveries about the Inspector's apparent honesty in his past dealings with her - with a notable exception "And the dead woman?" "The same no connection with the fireas with Gabbler." "How would you describe the dead woman?" "Youngish" the Inspector had replied, " about thirty years of age - at a push, maybe forty attractive, obviously very fit - looked after her body yes, very attractive." "Facially?" There was a pause - for no obvious reason - before the Inspector continued, in the same, indifferent, easy tone as before. "There was no face. It had been destroyed. There was nothing of note there left to enable any identification. The experts are satisfied this had occurred after death, and was undertaken to conceal her identity rather than anything else." The psychiatrist chose to consider that the concealment of this fact had been born of misguided sensitivity on the parts of both Gabbler and the Inspector. Neither of them had concealed from her the more salient fact of the inability to identify the woman - only the unpalatable, gory detail of 'why?' being omitted. The psychiatrist proceeded to return the Inspector to a normal waking state, having first taken the precaution of releasing his naked penis from his trousers - where, to her great surprise, it immediately grew full and erect in her hand. Hoping to leave him with sufficient confusion and shame to dissuade the telling of any stories about this incident, she was again surprised to note that the only 218

emotion shown was one of profound disappointment. Any confusion belonged entirely to her.

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Chapter Fifteen.2
Thumper was still embroiled with Jazz in an impossible interview that neither seemed to have control of. The conversation rolled on like a giant snowball in which the two men had become trapped, limbs protruding recklessly. Like strangers passing in the corridor of a train they seemed to have become mutually entangled by their cumbersome baggage - both men hopelessly jammed by the metaphoric skis that neither would ever use. With an accustomed ease that was fast becoming dangerous, Thumper had managed to expel from his mind the events of the previous day at the distant farm. Increasingly, his ability to bury anything distasteful was improving, to such an extent that it was now developing into a clinical condition. But, rather like low level interference on a radio, these buried traumas were always there, somewhere in the backgrounddisguising a real but untold degree of overall deterioration. Are you sure you wouldnt like a drink, Inspector? Jazz asked again, You seem to be sweating up somewhat there. A glass of water perhaps? No Im fine. Thumper reassured him, snapping back into the interview with immediate recall and renewed energy. So.Brewholder was completely unaware that the woman or perhaps, women who performed the periodic striptease was in any way related to Mr.Smith..sister, brother, auntie or mother? Mother?perish the thought. No, Inspector, the woman performing the striptease under several different guises was quite definitely Mr.Smiths sister. And if Brewholder didnt know this, and if your acquaintance with the whole charade was casual and accidental, how did you come to know that the dancer was Mr.Smiths sister? This was temporarily a facer for Jazz 220

 undone by cockiness again. He paused as if weighing the degree of trust he could risk on the Inspector. Thumper gave nothing away but his smugness. He felt content that he had the lawyer well and truly cornered. Im psychic. said Jazz. Fuck me! exploded Thumper, incredulous and spitting feathers; he never saw that one coming. Cheat! Cheat! Cheat! chanted the crowd on the terraces. Noits true. pleaded Jazz, I have a gift. Its not anything magical but just a natural gift that I have developedwith some help and training. Too right, youve got a fucking gift! Thumper struggled to control himself, And I havent got a gift. What I have got is a limited amount of patience and your gobbling it up like a man with a broken jaw. I havent got a broken jaw. .So much for being fucking psychic! said Thumper as he swung a fierce hay-maker in the direction of the waiting jaw. With some ease, however, Jazz avoided the punch which went on to find the corner of a cupboard, enabling the aging wood to tear spitefully at the Inspectors skin. Thumpers overall sense of unease increased the sharp edges of the world continued to rise up against him. As I said Jazz repeated, with far greater calm and control than he had hitherto shown. He reached inside the cupboard so recently attacked by Thumper and took out a bottle of Whisky and two glasses. This temporary distraction seemed to invite a second attempted attack from the Inspector who leapt for the lawyer but within a foot of his unprotected back the target moved with unruffled speed, still holding bottle and glasses, just like the slowmotion in a Kung-Fu movie. Thumper was bemused, unnerved and becalmed. I told you I had a gift! . so I see! observed the Inspector with ill grace, one fucking gift after another! 221

I do wish you wouldnt swear, Inspector. Its really not big; its not clever; and Im sure your superiors would take a very dim view of it. As would they take a dim view of your recourse to violence unprovoked violence. Assault is assault whoever the protagonist, and when it also involves the abuse of a position of trust and I am after all a .. Apart from that, he continued, bad language offends my religion deeply. And violence is always a dull weapon which rarely achieves the desired outcome. Against me it does not achieve any outcome beyond a substantial degree of embarrassment on your part..oh, yes, and a very painful wound to the offending hand. My gifts are entirely natural, fairly modest and nothing to be afraid of. And since we now understand each other a little better perhaps we can continue in a more civilised manner. Drink? Jazz had poured himself and drunk a very large whisky as he spoke. As he poured a second he offered a glass to Thumper who politely refused. He would have dearly loved a calming dram but even he saw the illogicality of drinking on duty, especially after having been threatened with a complaint to his superiors on two other counts. Drinking, swearing and fighting would constitute the golden trinity; the real Treble Chance that would see him destitute and defamed. For the moment, however, he remained alert and with his new found capacity to accommodate any new absurdity without apparent discomfort, he quickly adjusted to the lawyers gifts. If youre psychic he said, can you tell me where I might find the runaway couple? Yes and No. said Jazz. Psychic or not, thought Thumper, that kind of answer was going to get the fucking bastard smacked!

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Jazz frowned briefly, for reasons not apparent to the Inspector, and continued. I cant tell you exactly where they are but I can tell you that they are not too far away geographically. In all other respects they might be well beyond our reach. Thumper was irritated by the use of the word exactly as in .I cant tell you exactly .. The psychic did not have the remotest idea where they were. Is that it? asked the Inspector. Pretty much. My powers over this distance are meeting some resistance. I dont know whether it is them or someone else but they are bathed in a protective power. I can tell you, however, that they are happy and content. Oh, well thats good to know. Im very pleased; highly delighted. As long as the little devils are happy. Thumper surprised himself with the gentleness of his sarcasm, and the absence of any four-letter amplification. Why did you call them devils? asked Jazz with an entirely undue degree of urgency and concern. He was into his third drink which he now drained with uncommon speed. It was a joke. Devils are never a joke! warned Jazz, recovering his ease. Gifts or not, thought Thumper, the slippery bastards a flake, and a raving dipsomaniac to boot. I have no idea what a flake is, Jazz said, but I am certainly not a dipsomaniac. I drink because I enjoy it! I control it. It does not control me! He emphasised the point by pouring himself another large drink and downing it in one. The man was positively awash with gifts,and whisky, Thumper thought. And, swiftly on the heels of the thought, he scrambled to stifle it. With a frantic kind of dizziness he sought to cover all of his emerging thoughts with corrected thoughts, and so on, and so on. . There was, in fact, no hiding place. No matter how many turnings he made the little psychic was always likely to be there ahead 223

of himwaiting, not even breathless. And this daunting assessment was based on the knowledge of the very few gifts that had thus far been revealed to him. There was no way for him to know just how many powers the little bastard had! I beg you pardon!. Thumper immediately apologised. Worry not, Jazz reassured him, Few of us have blood test to confirm our parentage. Potentially were all spawn of the Devil!. Thumper would never ever be really certain whether or not, just at that moment, he actually saw the colour of the bastards eyes flame for an instant. More importantly, he didnt care. He simply wanted to put some space between himself and the little man. Apart from the all other considerations, there were far too many warts and whirligigs in his language. I didnt have the benefit of a formal education. My learning was acquired through fairly unconventional means. I like to think of my expression as colourful rather than warty. Jazz observed,I havent the slightest doubt you are well able to understand what I say and what I meanso I dont really know what your beef is?! Thumper already had his hands full with normal, verbal communication. He was already far too close to schizophrenia to risk a second conversation purely on the level of thought. It was like three-dimensional chess only clever aliens could safely manage that. Thats not entirely true. said Jazz, Some of the humans also Shut the fuck up! screamed Thumper with sufficient force and pleading to silence the persistent mystic. He gathered himself together and consigned the thought conversation to the abyss at the back of his mind. I dont suppose you have an address or anything that might help me find the sister a name perhaps? he began again. 224

Charlie Smith named after her father. Its short for Charlotte. .her father then, Mr.Smith senior, was presumably called Charles ? ..her father was only ever known as Chuck, a simple variation on Charles but a name she always seemed to have trouble getting her mouth round. And her brother, our Mr.Smith? His father was obviously disappointed with the first born and withheld his own name. They named him Richard. Everyone, of course, called him Dick and happily, his sister has never had any trouble getting her mouth round that ! Any address? 22b Cedar Terrace. Its a ground-floor flat with a generous terrace and an extensive garden in a leafy suburb on the edge of town..the very posh edge of town. Thats a very exact piece of psychic observed Thumper, getting a little cocky. Oh, youd be surprised just how exact I can be sometimes! Jazz said with an ominously knowing look. Thumper flushed at the prospect of that kind of personal audit and made to withdraw. There was so many questions he felt he needed to ask Mr.Overton-Williams but this was not the moment. He suspected, however, that the moment would not be avoided forever. Some other time perhaps, Inspector? said Jazz by way of a farewell, his head cocked to one side with a smile that wasnt quite taunting and wasnt quite threatening. He had the eyes and the habits of a hired gunslinger. Thumper nevertheless took away with him both the taunt and the threat. __________________________

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For two days Thumper took to his bed in a dark and curtained room. It did not afford him the refuge hed imagined it might. He was forever haunted by the fear and suspicion that the little bastard, Jazz, was monitoring his every thought and action. And the image that returned to him most often was of the stricken farmer, face down in the mud. He reassured himself, however, that the sturdy rugby player would have well recovered by now. He felt certain that the returning wife, vaunted by the farmer for her tendering skills, would have found him and nursed him back to full functionality. The sole witness to his guilt was the bitch, Atalanta, and while he did not trust her he was comforted by the fact she could not speak. Occasionally, he erupted from his turbulent sleep, sweating into the desolate night as he imagined some awful chymical wedding between Jazz and the bitch, Atalanta. He could never be certain that possession was beyond the powers of Overton-Williams. And he felt forced to consider the consequences of Jazz bringing his intelligence to inhabit the damaged mind and body of that doleful dog. Only sadness and the absurdity would attend on Thumpers violent death were he to be brutally savaged by the slavering beast; mans best and dearest friend suddenly and inexplicably turned feral. Just as much sympathy would probably rain down on the dog as would fall on him, and no-one would ever suspect motive. The lawyer would vacate the felon on the very cusp of the tragedy and fly free to feed on some fresh evil he was, after all, a lawyer ! Unable to escape his imaginings Thumper returned to work and made arrangements to interview the mysterious Charlie Smith. It had taken his staff several failed attempts to contact the woman and set up a meeting. Given that her work schedule spread itself across both night and day mainly as a private nurse now Thumper went off to see her as dusk was falling in the early evening. He had not previously considered that her relationship with Overton226

Williams might be more than had so far been revealed, and that gifts and power might become manifest in her also. If this was the case, he thought, the cloak of darkness rapidly falling around him was not likely to offer the most encouraging of environments. Fuck it! he thought, Theres nowhere fucking safe anyway!. Having just spent two days in his own bedroom under the tyranny and torture of nothing more than his own thoughts he was fairly bullish about the worst that could happen. He would always look to be on his guard but he was also aware that he had a damaged circuit somewhere and any control he could muster might be intermittent. The outburst left him calm. It was a genuine calm, comprising five parts composure and five parts confidence. It was as if, like steel, he had been hardened in the fire of his outburst. But, sharp as he was, even cold steel becomes dull over time and too much use. He approached the large house which had retained much of the grandeur from its youth. As soon as he rang the bell the lights fired up inside and the door was quickly opened by a very attractive woman looking a little disheveled in a nurses uniform stripped, for comfort, of all its accessory attachments. Very much in the modern style, its sleek, semi-transparent white placed her squarely in the private sector and away from the 50s seaside postcard that Thumper had been nurturing in his occasional imaginings. Miss Smith?Charlotte Smith? Charlie. Yes, and you must be Inspector Jenkins. she said, Would you like to come in. It wasnt a question and she turned immediately for him to follow her into the living room. It was clear to Thumper that she was in transit either in or out of the uniform she was wearing. I hope I am not delaying you on your way to work? he said.

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No, Ive finished for the day. I have just had something to eat and now I am entirely at your disposal..I was expecting you, you know. Your man made the arrangements but he didnt make it clear what exactly it was that you wanted? I do hope that I havent broken any of your laws, Inspector. No, no need to disturb yourself on that count, I assure you, Miss Smith Charlie. yes, Charlie.. as he listened to himself Thumper could hardly recognise the tone and manner of his conversation. It was if he was entranced. He was coy and solicitous. He was being simply a man responding to the woman she portrayed so brilliantly. Fortunately he knew he had little control over his behavior and so he trusted that the enslavement would not last. Theyre not my laws..I dont actually have any laws of my own .personallyI mean. Oh! How very free-spirited of you! I have very few myself but I suspect I shouldnt be admitting that to a policemen. I think you may have misunderstood. You mean youre not a policeman? Indeed I am but Thumper had had enough of side roads and cul-de-sacs over the past few days, and so he pulled out, ..it doesnt matter..forget it. You want me to forget that youre a policeman? The sister edged towards more familiar, more favourite territory. The lids over her eyes became heavier and the bones in her body seemed to soften into a profile of curves and viscous liquids. No. said Thumper, unintentionally brutal in its terseness. I merely want to know when you last saw your brother? What was a simple question seemed to cause the sister untold difficulty. Her face assumed a quizzical look and she appeared to be sorting through a whole catalogue 228

of options and consequences. Like a dull boy wrestling desperately with mental arithmetic, she seemed to have drifted off into a distant, quiet place, keeping the Inspector at bay. My brother.? she said, to no good purpose and drifted off again. Dick? Not just now. she said, distractedly. Thumper was about to go on to correct and clarify but didn't want to dwell on the issue. He also knew that failing to correct the serious misinterpretation brought with it terrible risks. In the event the pause was too long and the moment passed. Im not really sure when I last saw my bother. It obviously wasnt recently then? No. she said with total confidence. This was the kind of question she preferred ; recent was good. The past was riddled with traps and ambushes, and she preferred not to go there. If, as it appeared, the Inspector was only concerned with where her brother was now then she could not, truthfully, be of any assistance. She had no need to say any more, but, of course, she did. Unnecessarily she sought to put herself even further in the clear than she needed to be. I dont really have anything to do with my brother. Were not at all close. Aah. said the Inspector, with quite irritation. The sister knew immediately it was a step too far but had no real way of knowing just how much too far she had stepped. I have spoken with Mr.Brewholder and Mr. Jazz Overton-Williams. continued the Inspector. Learning from her earlier impetuousness the sister did not react or say anything. Thumper, for his part, sought a delicate way to broach the subject of her sexual involvement with Brewholder, and her brothers alleged role in the affair. Mr.Overton-Williams, in particular, related a range of 229

incidents which suggest you had an close and ongoing relationship with your brother. I think you need to be more specific, Inspector, and more than a little careful. That man Jazz is an evil little snake who shouldnt be trusted. You obviously know Mr. Overton-Williams then. I doubt that anyone knows Mr. Overton-Williams, Inspector, and you would be making a grave mistake if you thought that you did. He doesnt seem to have any purpose, and he doesnt seem to do anything. Yes, yes, yes. said Thumper getting more and more frustrated, .but can we say that you have, at least, met and spoken to M. Overton-Williams? You can say what you like, Inspector. As for me, I couldnt be certain with any confidence that you are not Jazz Overton-Williams, or that he even exists in any way that I could comprehend. Thumper was, at this stage, starting to get a little restless and angry which is his normal bent but he could not escape the possible truth of what she was saying. It was only his own stubbornness that had enabled him to erase from his memory the apparently supernatural qualities of the strange little lawyer. What Charlie Smith was saying did in fact make perfect sense. It also made him very uncomfortable, and a lot of other things as well. Charlie had wondered over to the stereo and put on some music as if to ease her mind and soothe her increasing agitation. It remained unclear whether the agitation was caused by the stress of the interview or fear of the malevolent Mr. Overton-Williams. Beyond these things, everything else remained unclear. Thumper was already being hounded by a howling pack of his own rabid questions and now the inscrutable sister in front of him conjured up a whole new batch mysteries. On a level he could understand, he noticed that the sister was starting to colour and perspire slightly. He would have said that she 230

was starting to glow but that was far too suggestive of aliens, saints and other imponderables. In truth, a little colour actually became her. I dont mean to cause you any unnecessary discomfort, Miss Smith. Charlie. er, Charlie, but there was an allegation that you were regularly procured by your brother to perform exotic dancing and striptease for his employer, Mr.Brewholder. Charlie seemed to sway briefly towards a faint but recovered immediately with a flutter of her eyelids. She gently brushed away the invisible furrows on her brow as if to settle and calm her mind before sidling over to a cabinet against the far wall and pouring herself a long drink. She took the drink over to the French windows and gazed out over the secluded garden. It was an enchanted grove of subtle lights and generous trees arching over gentle water bubbling through a rockery. After a short while she opened the door and walked out, inviting the Inspector to join her. She apparently needed air, and the gentle breeze which brought a freshness to a summer evening still very warm in the fading light. Some of what you say is true. she said, but not all of it, and certainly not the meaning you appear to have attached to it. Thumper sought to protest that he was just trying to establish the facts and that he attached no meaning to them whatsoever. Absurdly, this was truer than one might possibly dare to believe. Charlie, however, would not be deflected from her delivery. It was indeed through my brother that I made contact with dear, old Mr.Brewholder but that was many years ago. Since then continuing contact with Dick has been less than I would have liked. We have barely exchanged a word or a look. When you use the word procured I am not sure whether you are implying that money changed hands." She 231

went on. "Well, I cannot speak for my brother he was always a little silent but I can assure you that I have never received payment from anyone, ever in my life, for sexual favours of any description. Is this clear to you ? She looked directly at Thumper who nodded like a chastened child caught telling tales. And as for dancingthe music still carried quite clearly out into the garden, like a seductive perfume nestling in the night air, ..I love to dance. It transports me; I am transported. I am intoxicated. It possesses me. I become the dance. I am animal. She began to sway and effortlessly remove herself to a different place as her eyes glazed over. They took on a sultry sheen that reflected every meagre mite of vagabond light that found its way into the garden. I soar. she continued, as she snaked like Salome across and through the garden in a fluid and increasingly molten movement. I have no control. I am surfing the waves of feelings, and breasting the breakers of insatiable desire! I am animal! I am woman! With a single movement indistinguishable from the dance she released the zip at the front and dispatched her uniform, like a magician, to a place of concealment in the belly of a shrubbery. Thumper was no less possessed as he strode forward to follow the dance from lawn to shrubbery, to sheltered arbor. Clothes slipped from her like petals from a flower left exposed to the breeze. And when there were no clothes left she drew Thumper into the dance - rather more as a Maypole than full partner. Coming into the experience, Thumper had been a little damaged so he was woefully bereft of sufficient resource to withstand the onslaught. His continuing and concentrated efforts to disable the thinking part of his mind had left him entirely vulnerable to the visceral influences. He was also animal, although the judgement of any man passing on the Clapham omnibus might have simply been that he had gone native. 232

Is this the dance I am charged with? the sister screamed at him as she clawed his clothes from his body. He couldnt answer as she had him nestled like a firearm in her hands, pulling him closer and closer to an untidy explosion. His eyes rolled and he gagged like a drowning man as he felt her breasts pressed against his chest and the full reach of his penis swallowed up in her voracious warmth. With the unrestrained effort of the final thrust he forced her backwards, tumbling her onto the grass at the edge of the rockery where her head found sudden rest. It was sadly an uncomfortable rest as a hefty piece of rock severely bruised her nearest eye and left a tidy laceration just above it on her forehead. In an instant, however, she had regained consciousness and gazed up enigmatically into the Inspectors eyes. Is this rape do you think, Inspector? Thumper threw back his head and cast up his eyes unbelievingly to the skies. But all he found was the venerable old couple from the apartment above looking down on him with expressions of disgust, distaste and fond remembrance of things past. Thumpers disbelief increased beyond a level that he could find words to express. Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! the crescendo of his scream demonstrating the triumph of articulation over imagination. In the very instant he knew it wouldnt help. But, at the same time, he could think of nothing whatsoever that would help. Charlie Smith beneath him appeared to have passed out, but with Charlie, appearances appeared to be all you appeared to get . I can always find uses for a policeman. Charlie said from behind closed eyes and Thumper saw a glimmer of light where the door of the cell had not yet been closed finally on him. The light he saw, however, had the fetid quality of the demi-monde.

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Chapter Sixteen
"I think I might be remembering bits," Said Gabbler, "but I'm not quite sure which bits, and where they fit, or whether that fit is natural or " "Right." The psychiatrist interrupted, "Stop there for a moment, and let's try to separate the processes and deal with each on its own terms. Tell me exactly what you remember, without attempting to qualify it at all. Just present it stripped down to only its bare essentials." She didn't pause to wonder about her particular choice of image. "But how will I know what is the essential truth and what isn't?" "Let that be my job, " she said, "that is what I've been trained to do." Gabbler was unconvinced that any such training could possibly exist. "That seems to be a lot of power," He said, " to get to choose between illusion and reality, and discern a truth authorised only by your training and whatever titles, or letters after your name define that variable gift of training." "I think you're overstating it." she replied, "There always has to be a transparent rationale to support whatever I might suggest. I am looking simply to recover a truth for you. Ultimately, you will decide on the question. I am ideally looking for a consensus between us. The truth itself will always be inaccessible." "So you are looking for a consensus with a potential madman! On the one hand this is unlikely and reckless, but then, on the other hand, you can't lose! The problem is that I haven't yet established a consensus with myself; or the constituent voices that comprise 'myself' which was what I was struggling to say at the outset. And I appreciate that you are offering to help me secure that 'personal 234

consensus' but it could be argued that you would be the sole advocate to all the parties in securing that, and any subsequent, consensus!" "So you're unable to escape the subjective, and there is no feasible role for another to provide the objective - without immediately violating the subject itselfshades of Schroedinger's cat, " "Cool cat!" he was unable to resist the cat with shades. "all of which would appear to leave us at an impasse," she humoured him, with a degree of poorly disguised irritation, and we are left with no alternatives." " Unless we concede your role somewhat as Judge," he offered, "and adopt an inquisitorial form where I present my story in accordance with my own sense of its impart, and you are offered the opportunity, subsequently, to test its truth through questioning." "But, in allowing your story, I will have access only to whatever information you give me, and no access to what you choose to conceal from me - deliberately or through an incompetence of understanding, or articulation on your part." "You will obviously have the opportunity to contest factual errors, omissions and inconsistenciesbut as far that which is concealed from you? Why should it be otherwise? One doesn't have to lose one's memory to understand that much more is concealed from us than is ever revealed to us. As you have just agreed, the prospect of an accessible truth is always an illusion, and didn't we also agree that our search was purely for consensus?" "As you wish," she eventually concedes, "but I suspect that there will be far too many loose ends." "'Loose ends' are the very nature of life, in my experience. They proliferate like jungle vines in a rain forest but seem to cause us little distraction. They're not loose anyway - we just can't see the connections 235

because they often don't even look like connections. 'Loose ends' are always there. Only when we articulate our understanding, in whatever form, do we get the opportunity to airbrush them out; stories, pictures, histories, and so on, and on." "As you wish." She repeated, a little tired of the debate. "Should we include the Inspector?" "He appears to have reached his own impasse, for the moment at least." She said, "I don't know just how much continuing interest he has in your case insofar as he has been unable to sustain a connection between yourself and the surrounding circumstances - the fire and the dead woman." "So who's in charge now of my 'case'?" "Me, I suppose at least as far as you are concerned." Her irritation started to get the better of her, Can we get on," she pleaded, looking at her watch, time is pressing on!" There was a pause, to make space for Gabbler to enter his story. Surprisingly the psychiatrist did not seem to be seized of any degree of anticipation or excitement. It was either residual irritation, or maybe an unidentified preoccupation, that pulled at her face and brought a tautness to her expression. There was an issue about trust. And her inability to define the cause and root of this mistrust perhaps added to her frustration, and evident irritation. Gabbler's eloquence perpetually presented a dazzling glimmer across the surface of his purported abyss - much like the hunter's trap of brushwood and leaves over a concealed ditch. "I don't know if it was prompted by the tattoo but" he began, "Can we omit the interior debates," she interrupted immediately, and save ourselves the labour of addressing the 'bits' you 'don't know'?" Gabbler accepted the point 236

without taking any apparent offence. He was relieved of the burden of explaining the provocative elements of his tale. "Dressed much as you are now," he continued, "I remember a situation much like this; our many conversations. It was late in the afternoon, or possibly early evening. I know this only from the quality of the light through the window, casting an encroaching shadow across the lids of your eyes and the rise of your lips - there was a lingering haze from the heat of a very warm day. It was perhaps that haze that lent the experience a dream-like quality, and maybe I was tired. I get light-headed when I'm tired my head does far more work than my body these days. "This appears to be a recent memory rather than a recovered memory." She said. "Yes," Gabbler agreed, "but the recent lapses have alarmed me and it is those losses I have perhaps been focusing on, subconsciously, I suspect." There was no response whatsoever from the psychiatrist and, observing this, Gabbler went on. "Why am I still confined to my bed, by the way." He asked as the thought occurred to him. "You are not confined to your bed." said the psychiatrist, "Your preference for it - as opposed to the more normal lifestyle options - is one of the issues we have been trying to understand, and re-locate accordingly. You are, however, still confined to my supervision." "Yes, but " "Can we leave this for another time, Gabbler? We have already spent a considerable time finding the thread of this conversation without casting it away for a casual diversion. Can we stick to your story before it is lost again to your doubtful memory." "Of course," he sympathised and returned to his story, "For no apparent reason, or none that I can remember, you rose from your chair and began to slip off 237

your clothes; your crisp white coat, your smart suit, and so on all in a slow seductive manner but, somehow, avoiding any appearance of the behaviour being other than normal and unremarkable. And then " "And then " said the psychiatrist, too quickly, and with unexpected irony, rising to her feet and rehearsing again the performance he had just described. There was no slow build-up this time; no warning; a sudden violent blow arising from nowhere, shaking her, spinning her round inside herself and flinging her headlong out of portal she never knew she had before. "And then?" she repeated, the delivery fell somewhere between parody and excited reality. "What then?" she drew herself across him on the bed, almost naked, "What then? I crawled on top of you? Was that what happened then ? I crawled on top of you and we fucked and fucked, until we swam in our own sweat like animals, too hoarse to scream for more but we fucked some more anyway " "And then " said Gabbler, in a hoarse whisper, finishing his sentence with some calm, as if there had been no interruption, "And then nothing! as I said, I am only remembering bits. That was it. That was the whole 'bit'. I could see most of your body but I don't know whether I could see a tattoo?" There was a pause and a number of perplexing questions limped silently across the psychiatrist's face. Once again she had been conducted through a long and elaborate performance to an uncertain place where she discovered another absence in Gabbler's knowledge; another thing he 'didn't know'. The connection, however, had been palpable but 'love' she imagined rarely ever was. Before she could pull herself away from her patient she heard a familiar voice behind her.

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"Jane?" the nurse said quietly and with some considerable urgency, casually alarmed at the circumstance. "It's OK, Alice, said the psychiatrist, "everything is entirely under control. I know exactly what I am doing." "Of course you do!" said the nurse. It appeared to be just another day at the office but Gabbler was becoming increasingly aware that there appeared to be no-one on the Bridge steering the ship. _______________________

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Chapter Sixteen.2
Whisper had been drifting somewhat at work, trusting to routine and the automatic pilot on the Bridge. Given the low regard in which he was held by the rest of the Office, he was not troubled by any real interruptions or distracting visitors, especially while he still carried the curse of Wellrights visit. And, as happens when you drift, he had suddenly found himself far too far up a creek he had not been navigating. It was now Monday and Wellright was due to arrive on Friday. Time had slipped by as if in a dream and he was entirely uncertain just how prepared he was, or wasnt. Much of the organising had been done at one remove from him. The travel arrangements had been made by Wellrights staff in London, as had the overall framework of the visit. He had already rented a limousine for the day to cover all local journeys. The Hotel and the reception for Friday evening had been organised by Wellrights secretary, the doubtful Miss Svolti. So Whispers role was limited to that of local liaison and facilitator and most of that role had gradually been usurped by the local Council. For the actual visit to the office he had arranged all the necessary advance paperwork informative accounts of both the town and the Office, pen pictures of all senior staff and appropriate timetable which had satisfied everyone but the police. They had officially designated Whisper as a fucking useless twat and Whisper suspected that this designation had been passed on to the local Council. Two plain-clothes, officers were assigned to attend on the dignitary at all times. Given that Wellright would undoubtedly bring, at the very least, two plain-clothes men himself, it was entirely possible that the whole visit would be conducted in a cocoon of under-cover agents each 240

masquerading as the Joe Public that the irascible Lord thought he was meeting. It was an option that the police would have like to explore further. They had apparently already identified a disused World War II hangar which could be mocked up to represent any location in the town, internal or external, to receive all future distinguished targets (as potential visitors were now called). In this safe and controlled environment the honoured Guest could meet any number of prepared actors representing whatever personages they had hoped to meet. Various concerns were voiced to the police with references to the tail wagging the dog. This attempt at enlightenment predictably failed, however. The reference was interpreted as a direct analogy to violent revolution where a small, insignificant part of the body (the tail) had risen up and tyrannised the main, substantial part of the body (the dog). Neither the analogy nor the interpretation bear detailed analysis. But in the bowels of the local bridewell the particularly gifted officers sought to demonstrate its principles to their less gifted colleagues. This they did by actually swinging a live dog around their heads by its tail. The howling of the dog was necessary to bring home the terror of the circumstance. The sobbing of some of the more sensitive observers was not necessary but they did come to accept that every revolution has its casualties.. although the dog experienced far more revolutions than there were casualties, the only casualty being itself. Sanity did eventually prevail and agreement was reached to stick to the normal protocol for such visits. Whisper was left in no doubt that security was a matter outside of his concern. And Whisper would not quarrel with that assessment. By now he was experienced enough to know that his name was almost certainly logged down somewhere..in a place where blame might comfortably come to rest were blame to be required. He would have to watch out for that one. 241

Surprisingly this left Whisper remarkably abreast of affairs. His diary was noted to meet the Svolti woman at the Hotel late on Thursday afternoon. Apart from that he had only to check the physical state of the Office and the preparedness of those staff likely to meet the visiting Lord. He telephoned Irwin Throbe who confirmed that he was content with the arrangements although he did stop short of assuming any responsibility for them. Whisper apologised for the absence of any historical excursions in what was a very tight schedule. The history man conceded the difficulties with good grace admitting that Time was always the deciding factor which is perhaps exactly what one might expect from a history man. With a surprising feeling of well-being Whisper relaxed back into his chair and let his head loll back. He floated effortlessly on this unexpected tide of relative peace; sliding back into an imagined deck chair and the warmth of the sun. But on the very cusp of sleep he was dragged back into business by the pitiless howl of the telephone. He lurched forward and scowled at the treacherous machine, eventually picking up the receiver and expecting to hear the first few drops of rain falling on his parade. On the other end of the telephone, Jane, the bringer of all his joy, wrestled with the sudden realisation that she did not know how to address him. She knew him only as Mr.Roundwood. Circumstance, and natural reserve on Whispers part, had conspired to leave her without a friendly name for him just the coldly formal. She had no choice. She would have to hope that Whisper was not offended and took her formality to be a consequence of her call being to the Office, where she could not be sure just who might be answering. Mr. Roundwood? she asked. She need not have worried. he recognised her immediately.

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Whisper. he said. And predictably she did, always looking to please. No. he said softly, thats my name. Well, its not my name really. My name is really Graeme but everyone calls me Whisper. They always have done. Its so nice to hear from you. Whisper she repeated, almost to herself, like a foreign student taking the strange new word into their possession for the first time. She liked that name. It converted immediately into a picture, without the need for any effort on her part. Like those old, North American Indian names it had a quality that confirmed ethereal power and mystery; something not completely sayable. Jane? said Whisper, uncertainly into the silence, It is you. isnt it? Yes, it is. said Jane recovering herself, Im sorry, I just never knew your other name. Its very nice; veryevocative. Thank you very much. Im sorry to disturb you at your work but I have had word from the Lord Prime Advisor, Jessman. She paused to allow Whisper to confirm that he understood. But Whisper understood nothing beyond the fact that he knew he ought to understand. Parts of the name were familiar but not sufficient to enable him to secure an identity or a context other than The Management Team of the Coven. Yes? he said, hoping for enlightenment. God knows, this whole Special Rite thing - the magic, the murder and mayhem was beginning to be a bit of nightmare for him. Come to think of it, maybe God wouldnt know! .or should that be entity; Entity knows! All he really remembered was that some mysterious and powerful Magician was looking to wreak havoc on the Coven, and possibly beyond. Two things were clear to Whisper. The first was that if he did not deal with this unidentified 243

bringer of doom he might lose the girl, Jane. The second was that he might lose the girl anyway. On the positive side, if what was needed was a bit of magic he was broadly operating in the right area to stumble across some. Yes,. she continued, The Lord Prime Advisor sends his dutiful respects and bows before your mastery. He apologises a thousand times for disturbing you and approaches you through your appointed consort, as is the custom, being unworthy to command direct audience with you without prior arrangement. And he is desperate to make clear at the outset that he has no intention to interfere or question your judgement. Can we skip over the preamble, Jane he said, without offence being given or taken, I accept entirely the context in which he speaks. Yes she went on, He was just wishing to advise you that all investigations have failed to identify the unidentified spy in the Order. And, as time is now passing, there was little prospect of any greater intelligence being revealed, by normal means, before the Special Rite and the visit of the Magus, Leppipu the 303rd. He remains ever trusting of your great power but wishes you to know that everything rests with you. You are the only protection lying between the Order and its fate. Yes, said Whisper in the same, controlled monotone; strangely offering the undeniable reassurance one might get from a faithful android, I fully understand. What Rite would you like me to prepare for you? The usual special. he said with the increasing authority of his favoured monotone. Since it is the visit of the Magus should I prepare the High Mass rather than the.. Yes.when I said the usual I meant the usual for these occasions Whisper even improvised a touch of rebuke in his monotone which Jane seemed to find vaguely arousing. 244

And will you take the Mass or will. Nothe Magus will take the Mass. the increasing sharpness was like a whip to her flesh. And your role? she asked, and Whisper fell silent, paused in flight before the reach for the next swinging trapeze. My role? he held on to his calm, My role will be ..like a bodyguard, standing at the shoulder.and, at the outset, the Master of CeremoniesI will introduce. The protective Blessing before the Mass! Jane gushed in her eagerness to impress, .and the Dweller on the Threshold barring all intruders during the Mass. Yes. he said, I will be the Dweller on the Threshold. He rather like the sound of that, And I would want my initial Blessing to be disguised as a Welcome to the Magus and an introduction to his Mass can you write me something appropriate, please. Jane was a little taken aback as she, and indeed the Coven, had always preferred the traditional. She was concerned that Whispers approach seemed more like Sunday Night at the London Palladium, tricky dogs and a guest magician from the Circus of Berlin. Given the high stakes at play, however, and his track record to date she was not about to question the madness in his method. On his end of the telephone Whisper was very pleased with not only the way he had managed the conversation but also the way he appeared to have maneuvered into a much easier role at the Special Rite. Protected from the sight of Janes beauty, he was stronger and more in control. Ill get right on to it. said Jane and, still a little affected by his brusque management of her, she added, Would you be intending to call round for supper tonight? "

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Yes, I would very much like that. Before she could ring off he sought to exorcise a few nagging doubts which bothered him. Tell me before you go, did Jessman say whether they had discovered the identity of the deceased Grand Master, the gentleman I appear to have ..enflamed? I believe he was the original traitor? No. she said, without concern, just a naked old man. Adepts rising to senior office are entitled to keep their identities secret. Neither does anyone know the true identities of Jessman, Oscar or Casdan, the current senior officers excluding yourself of course. And I am known to everyone. Only because you chose to reveal yourself in the way that you did. Everyone has seen your face, I agree, but you have not identified yourself to anyone but me. Indeed, I myself only discovered your familiar name just now. I just happened to know you in a different context before I came to know you as a magician. Whisper let it pass. So am I right in assuming that this investigation which has just concluded; this search for a treacherous saboteur; a ruthless assassin..I'm right in assuming that this rigorous investigation, was conducted by three people whose identity, and appearance, was secret from each other? Yes, but.. And the faithful membership? We clearly see their faces and most other bits but what access do we have to the details of their identities? That is obviously at the discretion of each member. Right, said Whisper, Thats very helpful. I look forward to seeing you later. He was about to hang up when the zeal of his surging power pushed him on into an area that had previously daunted him. Oh, just one more thing, he said, Your husband. 246

My husband? she replied more quizzical than alarmed. Yes, your husband. Hes dead. she said abruptly and without feeling. Even with Whispers incompetence with feelings and emotions this was rather stark, and a little unnerving. Oh, Im sorry.. he began, intending to exorcise any repressed feelings but there were none. Thanks, but its OK. she said, Wed been separated for over five years. You caught me at the hospital purely on a mission of charity, and courtesy. Any feelings died a long time ago. Oh, fine. said Whisper, hoping that the death of any feelings related only to the feelings she had for the exhusband. The issue was academic, however, since, given the dullness of his own sensitivities, he was never likely to detect her feelings either in the absence or otherwise. And brief though the exchange had been, it had drained him of the power he had so recently accumulated. Now he was simply looking to escape and recover. It had, after all, been the best possible answer he could have asked for. Fine, he repeated, ..but I must rushsee you later. OK, she replied, without any indication that the brief discussion had disturbed her at all. Indeed it had not. It was just simple facts. Ill press on with your Opening for the Special RiteI think I know just the thing. He hung up without having caused any offence or alarm to the love of his life and walked over to the window. He sank his hands deep into his pockets and tapped his forehead against the glass in that age-old comfort ritual of knocking some sense into himself. He then applied some verbal salve with the usual worriers mantra.dear, dear, dear,. dear, dear, dear.etc.. Mentally he was caressing the spot where Original Sin resided, much in the

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same way that an old soldier might look to calm the recurring ache from an old shrapnel wound. He failed to hear the gentle click of the door and, in consequence, also missed the embroidered skull cap edging around it as it was pushed ajar. Beneath the cap, the sad, sorrowful sheepdog eyes of the twilight Williams projected a desperate sympathy across to his unseeing colleague. Since that fateful day with the scalding coffee, so long ago now, Williams had always considered their fates to be entwined; forged in the very same maelstrom of heavenly dyspepsia. And they did indeed seem to be locked into the same chaotic Dance Macabre. As Whisper turned and just caught sight of the open door he kicked it shut with the full force of his own poor temper. It would not, of course, shut due to the obstruction represented by Williams neck and throat. There was a rasping death-rattle and frantic choking noise followed by a heavy thud as the door sprung back from his neck, freeing Williams head to drop to the floor like the hammered weight on the fairground scales. His eyes bulged with either surprise or supplication as Whisper leapt forward to drag him to his feet. It was a move fired by concern and compassion rather than competence. The effect on Williams was similar to the Benz experienced by divers sucked up to the surface too fast. Speechless, and clearly distressed, Williams clawed at the air like Spiderman with a clear malfunction of his webbing mechanism. And, in exactly the same way one might peremptorily restore a dislodged vase of flowers, Whisper arranged the flailing man in a comfortable chair and left him alone to recover. Whisper set off into the body of the office to check on the preparedness of the appointed staff for their meeting with Wellright. Aware that things might well be taking a turn for the worse, he thought that the most appropriate place to start would be the troublesome Manager, Mr Priestman. But, finding his room empty, he learnt from his 248

Personal Assistant that no one knew where he was and that he had not been seen since last Thursday. Has anyone phoned his home? asked Whisper. Every man and his dog has phoned his home! replied the indolent Assistant. And? And nothing! It cant be and nothing. There has to be something! Oh, right! You tell us what it is then because weve got and bleeding nothing. No- one knows where he is. What about the police? Have they been informed? Whos managing the office? I think you are mistaking me for someone who gives a shit! Im just his Assistant. I assist him or whoever is in his stead. If he isnt here and no-one is in his stead there is no assisting to be done. I have no problem accommodating that. Realising that he was wasting his time with the Assistant, he raced off to speak with Priestmans appointed deputy. In an equally strange and frustrating conversation he discovered, in brief, that the Managers absence was unnotified, unexplained and, in consequence, unrecognised. It was in fact being entirely ignored locally, Regionally and at Headquarters. When Whisper sought to put this in the context of Wellrights visit he discovered that it was that very context that had prompted the unique response. Such was the reputation of the irascible Lord that no-one, at any level, was prepared to step into the absent Managers shoes, nor, apparently, could they bring themselves to force anyone else into those shoes. As for Whisper well, he was already there, by default. The absence of any surviving relatives enabled the Managers disappearance to go largely unnoticed, at least for the moment. There was always the prospect that one of 249

his friends may, at some stage, raise the question of his whereabouts but this had not happened so far, nor was it, in truth, anticipated. There was no oasis in the Priestmans desert. Official procedures were also elastic and pliable enough to enable inertia to prevail for a few more days. While it was clearly a quandary, Whisper was always pragmatic in his approach. He would deal with matters as they presented themselves and not seek to bend them around unsupported assumptions. It was, after all, a relatively short visit and all of the other appointed staff had declared themselves to be fully briefed, fully prepared and fully confident about what was required of them. Returning to his room Whisper juggled with the positive and the negative of the Managers disappearance. Given the mans outrageous demeanour, he decided that there was, on balance, no doubt that the absence was a virtue. This certainly left a gap to be filled in proceedings but this, in many ways, was less of a problem than the uncertainty the manager had represented. Whisper was confident an answer would present itself. And indeed as he left the Office at the end of the day he was struck by the aristocratic bearing of the otherwise-damaged Mr. Williams. As the timorous man scuttled down the corridor like a man under fire from rotten eggs or a snipers bullet, he did have a certain bearing. In addition to the embroidered, silk skull cap, covering the scalding burns, he now sported similarly Victorian cravat to cover the awful bruising around his neck. With his renewed good humour, Whisper sought to catch up with him. But for Williams, like a small dog too-often abused, only the recent memories remained. He folded himself into a corner, at an angle too pained to support any prospect of conversation. Short though he was of any counseling skills Whispers heart went out to the poor man and he longed to reach out and make it better.

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Would you like a cup of coffee? he asked, and a single tear could be seen slaloming through the crevices beneath his eyes. Such casual, considered sadism. Would they never tire of torturing him with the ghost of hot beverages.

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Chapter Seventeen
It felt like drugs. His eyes were reluctant to open and there remained some slight dribble around his mouth; his shoulders felt like lead weights, pinned to the ground. He was lying on his back, on a tartan, picnic blanket in the garden, just on the edge of the copse. The sun was shining. It was early afternoon and, apart from the rude awakening, he appeared to be most comfortable. There was a resistant stiffness in his limbs and a familiar stickiness about his eyes. He was dressed casually in a fine pair of denims and a crisp, cotton shirt with a generous button-down collar. On his feet he sported a pair of soft leather mules worn without socks, in the modern style. All in all, he had been dressed rather well,by someone who clearly knew something about 'style', and suchlike. Whether or not this was 'his style' he had no way of knowing but he certainly felt comfortable, and a little more 'recovered' - in more ways than one. As far as he could see, immediately, he was on his own, although other debris beside him on the blanket suggested that this had not always been the case. And just to his right a wicker chair remained empty 'though he could not tell whether there had been an occupant previously. Once again he feared himself to be 'awakening' from an event which had passed without leaving any deposit in his memory. A brief and distant laugh faded on the breeze and, as he turned to catch it, he thought he saw - again - a woman in underwear chasing like a giddy child between the cover of the trees and shrubs. He couldn't be certain. He had a sense of things still happening elsewhere; giddy things. He couldn't be certain. He could be certain that were a white rabbit with a pocket watch to pass by in a desperate hurry, that rabbit 252

would be very, very late. But he didn't know why that would be so, or how he came to know that. And with a synchronicity that was entirely lost to him, he heard a playful voice drift across the tops of the smaller trees calling for "Alice! Alice!". Giddy laughter followed as he turned to catch again a young woman - too quick for him to recognise - wearing even less underwear than before. And as he returned his attention to the wicker chair he was immediately startled to find the Inspector now sitting there, as if he had always been there. "What?" said the Inspector immediately, apparently awaiting an answer. "What?" Gabbler replied, fearing he might have missed the first half of a conversation he was now expected to finish. "Did you say something?" "No." chanced Gabbler, "at least I don't think so." "So where have the others gone?" Gabbler didn't know who the others might be - 'though he knew of no 'others' at all, except the nurse and the psychiatrist neither did he know where they might have gone. What he did know, however, from the Inspector's question, was that the Inspector had obviously only just returned himself. This offered some reassurance, and recovered for him some confidence in the fractured competence of his own mind. "I'm afraid I have no idea," said Gabbler, "I must have dropped off. In fact, I think it was your return that just woke me. I think I hear voices and seen the odd body dashing by in the woods." "What?" said the Inspector, incredulous. He clearly viewed Gabbler as utterly unreliable, in each and every aspect. There was a pause between the two men - both temporarily undermined by attacks of uncertainty, following from their demonstrable inability, thus far, to

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sustain any semblance of conversation. Each dived for the silence of deeper waters. "Alice " ventured Gabbler after a while, chancing fate for a clue. "Yes," said the Inspector, grateful for any entre into conversation, "She's a great girl very adventurous Scandinavian I think originally you can tell appetite and athleticism if you know what I mean but forever getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. But then, you'd know that." "I just heard someone call her name that's all" "More than likely" The Inspector didn't know where to take the conversation. It was all too confusing; acquaintances; undefined relationships; a suspect; sex; and a dead, naked woman. It was a professional minefield - and he was already wounded. "I wanted to ask about the dead woman?" Gabbler was the first to plunge, and with a question that presented itself without any prior notification to either man. "What?" said the Inspector with an increasing degree of predictability, "I'm not sure that that's any of my concern anymore. We have reached an unfortunate impasse in that investigation, and 'the powers that be' have decided that a fresh pair of eyes might represent the best option." Gabbler wondered for an instant how 'fresh eyes' might present a good 'option' for a dead woman, before discarding the nonsense and returning to his recurring concern "I know but " he stuttered. "You know what?" paranoia was an aggressive beast, in the Inspector's hands, suspecting the whole world of withholding information from him. "Nothing! I know nothing " Gabbler retreated a safe distance, still very uncertain of the terrain, "but that's just it. I know nothing at all but there are bits that keep returning to me." 254

"Memories?" "No, Questions. Simple questions like, the tattoo?". This, of all possible questions, was quite definitely the wrong question to be revisiting with the Inspector. "There was no tattoo," the Inspector was calm and precise, "No tattoo at allof any type anywhere on any fucking body! " "There was more than one body to search?" "Apparently fucking not!" said the Inspector, undecided whether Gabbler was just being typically stupid or maliciously, goading him "I don't understand " "You don't even know your own fucking name, where you've come from or where you've been ! Why would you understand!" "No I suppose not. But that's exactly it in spite of all logic to the contrary, I quite clearly feel that I should understand. Might that be guilt, or something? "Don't know! Don't care! Ask the psych!" "Was there any indications of sexual activity of any particular type?" "What?" the Inspector returned to his favoured response, becoming increasingly incredulous. "I know I realise" said Gabbler, knowing little and realising less. "This is none of your business " "Yes, I realise that but suppose it is?" "If it is or if it becomes so, then we can discuss this all again - with whoever is now leading the investigation." "Yes! Fine " Gabbler was grasping at straws without really knowing why he should be. "We're both out of it now so, just to put my mind at rest? For some reason, I'm thinking of magic Black Magic ritual sex that sort of thing, you know ?" 255

"What?" "I know it makes no real sense, but I just wanted to politely ask " The eventual response came as a surprise to both of them as the Inspector just rose from his chair and strode away across the blanket, failing to apologise as he accidentally caught Gabbler's eye with his knee, on his way past, sending him back to the sleep. In the backwoods sex, misunderstanding and misadventure seemed to be abounding without pause or recrimination. Unseen,Unverified and untold. _______________________

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Chapter Seventeen.2
Across the rich carpeting of the hotel foyer her approach was entirely silent. She breasted the revolving doors and slithered towards the reception desk with all the grace of mercury escaping from a tube. Only the regular clink of pendulous earrings portended her arrival like the dragging spurs of a tired old gunfighter ambling with vampiric lust towards yet another destiny; a throat forever parched; an insatiable longing forever unrelieved . All around the place porters, bellboys and chambermaids froze in mid-task like timid townsfolk, uncertain whether to scamper off to observe from the safety of windows. They could feel the power like some great, magnificent force and feared its caprice, but then Velda smiled - a coy but doubtful angel - and the tension was loosed, like breasts from a bodice, with much escaping of breaths and almost audible gasps. The men present were clearly and forever in love but it wasnt a spiritual thing - and it immediately impaired the self-conscious stride of the younger of the two bellboys. The elder had elected not to move and appeared to be melting somewhere deep inside - his expression, at least, seemed to indicate some slow kind of implosion, causing his eyes to roll and his tongue to yodel silently in his mouth, like a distraught figure in a red wetsuit waving desperately for help. The receptionist was a colder fish who rather considered her own, teasing, business suit far more alluring in its subtlety than the more obvious charms of the goddess now facing her across the desk. Indeed Alice, as the receptionist was called, was an extremely sensuous and attractive woman herself who was probably too competitive for her own good; certainly too competitive for a role in customer services. She turned deliberately away from 257

Velda to attend a more urgent demand and Velda waited, unconcerned with competition at this level. After a short while she rang the bell and waited again, absent-mindedly brushing the truant hairs from her breast and thighs. Im coming! Alice responded brightly and, in the background, the elder bellboy exhaled; a cannonade of bubbles breaking the surface as he gagged suddenly for air in desperate pursuit of some relieving equilibrium. The two women turned to see, and watched, and patronised the poor bastard. gently, with a smile and look. I have a reservation. said Velda, and Alice resisted the obvious crack - partly because none of the known North American tribes were blonde, and partly because she had always found those suede and leather dresses they wore very sexy. This had led to some confusion in her mind about the feasibility of an effective insult. Consequently she did not pursue it. Instead she gave her the condescending look that read - Youll have to tell me more than that, you silly cow! Im not a bloody mindreader. For myselve and Lord Vellright. continued Velda, and Alice was momentarily a little deflected by Veldas apparently noble connections, .......Two separated rooms... ......next from each other. You mean to each other. corrected Alice. Ve mean nothing to each other! said Velda indignantly. I am his right hand! This was too easy, thought Alice and again passed on the opportunity. Clearly the womans occasional disability with the language made her an open target but without a literate audience the fact could not be exploited. He will be coming later! persisted Velda. No doubt! thought Alice, frustration welling up inside her like trapped wind. There vill be alzo another little man around to zee me this afternoon. she went on. This was the first 258

intimation that Alice had had that Wellwright was little and pondered this introduction of size into the equation by Velda. Was it the fact of their littleness that enabled her to fit in both men on the same day - or, indeed, was this simply to be taken as polite restraint - Im having two slices but theyre only little! - as one might do with slices of cake......dangling forever the doubt that had all of the slices been the same size another pretext would have been found to justify the taking of two! And, finally, the controversy always remains as to whether the slices are in fact little compared to the rest, or are perceived by the consensus as being fairly equal. This is always going to be a judgement call - and Alice loved, positively loved ........making judgements! Hiz name vill be Roundvood. Velda concluded, with undue emphasis, sounding unfortunately like John the Baptist heralding the advent of the Almighty in human form - but without the marketing mans gift for names. While the Lamb of God is sufficiently quizzical to imply a notion of mystery, the Lamb of Roundwood merely sounds like the cute but dumb cousin of Flopsy, Mopsy and Funny Bunny Cottontail who live on the hill! Irritation was already starting rise in the receptionists head like a low but unrelenting buzz.. She was involuntarily competitive; ambition in a mans world often empowers the demon inside oneself. And this demon is not always easy to control or direct. She was cursed with a blind determination. This impaired her ability to distinguish the profitable areas of combat from the merely gratuitous. She simply could not allow herself to be bested at anything. But relief came, accompanied by not a little frustration, as Svolti reared herself up and swung away from the desk like Roy Rogers on Trigger, cutting a departing swathe through the assembled gasps of the stalagmite males, rooted to their various spots. Alice 259

welcomed the opportunity to collect herself. She was resolute; this was ground she would never surrender; she was, and would remain, the supreme sex goddess of this domain and no-one far less a foreigner was about to challenge that sovereignty. But first she had to reel in the early defectors among the staff. They could currently be seen gazing like sad sheepdogs into the disappearing wake of the heavenly body that had just been Svolti. A sharp, uncompromising ding on her receptionists bell brought them all immediately to heel in order that she might put the fear of God into them, before offering the uncertain promise of earthly delights. But, on the very cusp of her declaration, the phone rang. Her audience dispersed with the aimless gait of undiagnosed patients emerging from temporary blackout. And normal business resumed. The receptionists agitation continued to bubble on a low simmer as she recovered her professional persona to answer the telephone. The call was from a friend who worked at the very hub of the organisation in Company H/Q. Her tone, in consequence, became relaxed and vaguely conspiratorial. Alice seemed to be simply receiving a stream of information, which receipt she continually confirmed with a mellow beeping sound rather like a fax or a ticker tape machine um,.um,.um,..um,..um... The conversation finished with a bouquet of thank yous and repeated assurances of indebtedness from the receptionist who was already preoccupied in processing the intelligence she had just received. Apparently one of the senior Personnel Managers at the company was, at that very moment, on his way to the Hotel, entirely incognito. The purpose of this clearly-secret investigation was clearly very unclear - even to the very few to whom its purpose had already been made clear! What was clear possibly was that this Manager was 260

intent on investigating one or more of the employees at the hotel. What remained unclear was which employees they might be, and whether the exercise had a positive or negative motivation. Alice was aware that the fortunes and ambitions of all staff were at the mercy of such mystery shoppers. And for a woman of her ambition this single awareness was sufficient to render all other considerations superfluous. This giddy perspective, the triumph of desire over insight, might well have been encouraged by the residue of adrenaline still coursing through her veins after the encounter with Svolti. This was her moment of destiny; cometh the hour, cometh the man .and indeed, if that was what was required then cometh he would! Sadly, Alices informant at H/Q could offer no clues as to what this mystery shopper might look like, beyond the fact that he was a man. This team apparently comprised entirely of men and, because of its main function, its members guarded their secrecy and their identities as closely as might a closet super-hero. Alice played a little with the muscular image that this conjured up in her mind, which only acted, in turn, to accelerate the giddiness that spun about her like a power-shield; transparent as a gyroscope. She set about making plans probably far too quickly with the thoroughness of the true obsessive. She knew that she was due for promotion since she had ensured that everyone else, above and below her, also knew that she was due for promotion. Ambition-at-any-cost is a fearful thing to behold, especially when you come across it unawares, without the protection of a whip and a bentwood chair. She played with a full set of clubs violence, blackmail, treachery, sycophancy and sex, amongst many others. Sex was always favourite, not because she particularly enjoyed it but because even where it proved unsuccessful it rarely gave rise to offence or grievances. Although with sex you could not always guarantee winning 261

you could be fairly confident about never losing unless, of course, you put a value on dignity. Information is power always. And while she had precious little of it at the moment she did have the essential piece of information - the simple fact of the visit itself. This was an invaluable plus but she needed more. It was likely to be impossible to secure any specific detail about the particular shopper but it would be possible, she realised, to garner whatever information she could about the team rumour, guesswork, hearsay or real intelligence. And to this end she took herself off to the back office and conversations with every contact she had in the organisation, both in H/Q and the various Hotels in the chain. She made copious notes. Up in her room Velma Svolti was already naked and on the phone to the night porter with a remarkably calm expression of irritation. I haff tried the receptionist several times and failed. she confided in him. It was experience already familiar to the night porter, and to many others of the male staff. There was an involuntary twitch of his nose and he scowled slightly it was her loss; she was just a stupid, cock-teaser. .is anyone there? Velma persisted. Yes, I beg your pardon, he jerked himself back into business, I am the night porter but I have only just arrived on duty. How exactly can I help you, Im afraid the receptionist is tied up in the back room? Velma knew that she her understanding of the language was fragile whenever it suddenly veered away from her into seemingly dark and desperate areas. Too many interpretations presented themselves but she chose to accept that the idiom had simply escaped her and that there was nothing untoward. Vill she be long?

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Ill just check. said the night porter as he strode over towards the back room, the receiver dangling loosely from his left hand. And as he opened it the hydraulic spring on the top of the connecting door, badly in need of oil, whined a pitiful scream which was abruptly arrested by the sudden, dull thud of the door springing back to a close as the porter released it. To the listener on the other end of the phone the sounds were distant, but all the more haunting because of the distance. It didnt sound good. No. said the porter, returning to the phone, She looks like she will be tied up for quite some time. Is there anything I can do to help? and then, putting the receiver to his chest, he called quietly to the departing laundry man as he passed reception, to ensure he caught him before he left, We desperately need more towels. No. Im fine. Ill call again later if I need anything. said Velma, and quickly pushed the receiver back into its cradle. She stared at the phone in silence for a moment taunted by its dumb insolence. Her mind was uncontrollably full of bloody towels, gaping wounds and gulping breath. She did not understand why her mind was so morbidly obsessed, and was profoundly aware of her capacity to be misled by her fairly basic grasp of the language. However, the constituent parts of the fractured conversation on the phone would not allow themselves to be reconstructed in anything other than a sinister form. For purposes not revealed to her, she imagined the slight receptionist strapped roughly to a chair in a dingy backroom being subject to a muffled but merciless beating. And what was worse was that - not only had the strength of the beating stretched their need for towels beyond the norm, but the flow of blood was apparently so fierce that it made the need for more towels desperate ! It was a pitiful image that lodged itself at the back of her mind. In the end she was swayed by issues of personal risk, and nagging doubts about her own judgement, and imagination and the 263

way the one might infect the other. She took to her bed and stared, unblinking, at the locked door. It was like being a child again back in Eastern Europe, and there was great comfort in that perhaps even because of the familiar and pervasive anxiety. Some people can only sleep with the persistent howl and drone of heavy traffic outside their bedroom window. For Velma it was the suffocating pressure of absolute fear and dread but that was another story. Downstairs meanwhile the receptionist herself was feverishly engaged in telephoning every contact she had in the Organisation in an attempt to secure more information on the mystery assessor due to arrive at the hotel. The outcome of her enquiries was very disappointing. She had managed to learn precisely nothing beyond the fact that the visitor was certain to be a man. Reported anecdotes were of even less help insofar as they revealed that, rather like Eastern deity, the assessors could apparently appear in any form as long as it was male and human. Although some of Alices more militant female colleagues argued that there was a clue in this male and human was, in their view, an extremely rare combination. She was only dragged away from the phone after an hour and a half by a very direct insistence from the night porter that he had things to do, other than stand-in at reception duties. The intrusion brought her suddenly to the realisation that she was wasting her time enjoyable though it had been to chew the fat. And so she returned to the front desk like someone returning from a dark and solitary confinement. It wasnt the light that her eyes were adjusting to, however, but the possibilities. She looked out across the desk into the world from which any new person might approach her, their true identity totally unrevealed. It was probably this slight adjustment in her reality; this subtle skewing of focus that quickly set her

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aside. She was thereafter a little mad, but little in the sense of a little snowball losing stability and starting to roll. Every unaccompanied man entering the hotel was, for her, a suspect. And being early evening on a normal weekday, virtually every other client was an unaccompanied man just finishing the days business and looking for rest. Her task was, from a Business point of view, to provide the perfect customer service and, at the same time from a personal point of view find out what else the man wanted, make sure he got it, and capture him to her purpose. This was a very difficult task even for the sane and the coldly efficient. For anyone who was a little mad it was quite simply running with scissors. By mid-evening, after the early evening rush, Alice had identified six prime suspects, checked them in and conjured up spurious grounds for visiting each of them in their rooms on a rolling schedule unknown to them. Some of those identified anticipated sex, others feared sex and at least one had real hopes and intentions of selling her a food mixer with forty-two separate attachments. By the early hours of the morning she had completely satisfied five and had the sixth trapped in his bathroom sobbing like a child. Though she suspected that the man with the food mixer was unlikely to be employee of the Hotel Company she, nevertheless, brought him to a kind of ecstasy with his own machine. Her only disappointment had been that she had failed to draw blood with at least three of the optional attachments. She made a mental note that on any similar occasion in the future she would desperately need more towels. By the next morning she had absented herself from work, claiming ill health, and was in her room at the top of the hotel, bobbing happily in hot water. As she lay in the bath and reflected on the nights events she could not escape the conclusion that she had enjoyed it like nothing she had ever enjoyed before. She knew that she was made 265

to be adored by men and, in spite of years of advice to the contrary, she really enjoyed fucking them. These two factors, she reasoned, were going to be the secret to her success. Woefully, this was the full extent of her reasoning. But it was a plan that appealed to her above all other things. She was now more than a little 'off the fairway'. All six men checked out immediately after breakfast. Velma was a little distressed to find the receptionist absent from her post the next morning and found the report of her unspecified sickness entirely unhelpful. Surveying the hotel she could not but be struck by the clear normality of everything. She could not persuade herself that anything brutal or untoward had actually happened to the missing receptionist. She reassured herself and buried her residual apprehension in the dark corner of her mind, under an accumulation of other such apprehensions. Today she would see Roundvood.

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Chapter Eighteen
"So where are we? And what have we learned?" The questions posed by the psychiatrist were not expressed as coldly as they appear on the page. There was a good deal more warmth, and far more uncertainty - both elements being simultaneously realised in this somewhat defining moment; the bridge too far. The transaction had occurred in an instant between the eyes certainly, stumbling between the words, and nestling somewhere between 'feeling' and 'knowing'. It was a warm place but she was uncertain what part was 'feeling' and what part was 'knowing'. She stood by the large, picture window in her office, gazing out over a pleasant and unpeopled panorama; hills and distant valleys. As usual she presented a sharp, crisp silhouette to Gabbler who reclined, not necessarily at ease, in an easy chair at the heart of the room. If she were on the bridge, then he was cast down in the borrowed light of the engine room. Neither seemed 'suitably-cast' in the roles their thoughtlessness had chosen for them. "I don't feel I have learned a great deal, if anything at all." He ventured. "No!" she said, disappointed at the lack of any helpas ever, "But then you seem to be having trouble taking anything at all from your experiences past or present! You seem to derive no mental nourishment from what you take in before you immediately excrete it; a kind of intellectual bolimia!" "What?" he started to say before stopping himself, concerned he may have spent too much time with the Inspector. "Fortunately," she turned towards him, "I'm sure of what I know. Certainty has to come from somewhere. I 267

think our little fellowship has been abandoned by Wizard, Mystic, Lawyer and Policeman little hope of the Lone Ranger swooping in with solutions. So there appears to be no better available intelligence; no competing argument or advice. And so I am sure of what I know. I have gifts and talents, and I am naturally perceptive. I can read minds. "The problem with reading minds," she continued, "is that it is difficult, hard work. And it is the nature of minds or, more importantly, the people that use them, that they change them - often very quickly." "I'm sure of what I know, however, and certainty has to come from somewhere. At some profound level I am inextricably tied; bound to you. As a psychiatrist I cannot resort to the vernacular of 'love' - but I am tied inextricably." "Given the nature of my condition," Gabbler said, "you mean 'tied' in the sense of - 'moored' to a piece of flotsam?" "Perhaps," she replied, "but you are not flotsam you are also 'tied'; anchored; bound to me. You may be robbed - continually - of remembrance and, in consequence of that, the understanding that supports this view. But at a deeper, instinctive level you know this to be true." "I think I interpret those recurring urges to be just 'sex'." "Or magic?" "It always seems to come down to sex and magic. When you lose the capacity to remember, everything has to happen by magic and sex, desire, physical needs are ever present as the major whatever. I suspect I could obsess about food but those appetites are routinely met here - even before I know I have them. And, of course, all else is anarchy; the animals we are - the only points of reference being sex, offered up without any need for meaning. The meaning will come from the magic." 268

"And religion?" "What?" Who do you adore?" "Sex and magic are the major mysteries that might" "Provided by which Gods or Goddess?" Gabbler paused. The debate was clearly too thin; too simplistic; too hysterical. It had lost the essential depth and complexity that normally attends upon meaning, or revelation. There had to be considerably more " and Ritual?" She said, as if pursuing an obvious answer that seemed to be eluding him. But Gabbler was immediately confused again about her integrity and purpose. She appeared to have picked up the baton from his conversation with the Inspector. And, if they were indeed a team, she was stealing some advantage over him finding new energy where he was becoming breathless. Is this how psychiatrists work - patient predators with the natural gifts of a chameleon, and the steely eye of a bird of prey. Perhaps she can read minds. "Rituals can provide the essential access," she continued, "the essential magical access to the mystery; the meaning; the purpose the ecstasy of fucking revelation!" This was crazy talk alright. But was it to a purpose. " Sacrifice and misadventure."He said. That should do it, he thought. Magic was unlikely to save him - and sex? It currently streamed through the air like electricity. All about him people seemed to be doing it, or planning to do it; simply thinking about it; or generally associating with it - in whatever form, directly or indirectly. Everywhere there was sex. Is that the reason he's here? Where's the joy; where's the logic; where's the tattoo; and where's my bloody clothes! ________________________

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Chapter Eighteen.2
Thursday presented itself through a fine, insistent drizzle. It insinuated itself into the air and diffused like an enfeebled poison that would take years to do harm through coughs and sneezes, and the hopeful spread of predictable diseases. It dulled the day and persuaded all casual users to stay in bed, or at least indoors. Workers and those of clear purpose braved the miserable morning but even into lunchtime a cloudy inertia prevailed. It was the kind of day when spindly malevolents skulked unnoticed down the edges of streets; heads down, folded like misers over the secret bundles they were protecting from the rain. Whisper had dawdled in his preparations for work because Jane was unusually insistent that he was going to die. From her tone of voice he was content that this was not a threat or, at least, not one emanating from her. Beyond that meagre understanding he was struggling. He wasnt clear if she was revealing a premonition and speaking in tongues, or simply knew something he didnt. In fact, she knew many things that he didnt but she didnt know that he didnt know. Irrespective of which, she took her new role so seriously that she had effectively moved in with Whisper, spending most nights at his place particularly leading up to the Special Rite. History dictates that, amongst any or all others who might die tonight, you are certain to be one of them. she said, in a very matter-of-fact way quite clearly repeating something memorised. She was referring to the Special Rite - which is why Whispers level of understanding was poor. Magic, of the purposeful kind, was not a subject he knew anything about. His failure to retain any attention at all when Jessman had revealed to him the secrets of the coming crisis meant that his ignorance was complete. Jane, who had remained 270

studiously attentive, appraised him fully of every nuance and detail to no avail. It had never been the most convincing tale even when it was told in full regalia by sombre and deep-throated men. And now, every stretch and gesture Jane used served only to animate the flow of her body, restrained only by the compliments of her underwear. The glittering fanfare of the morning sun danced on her naked shoulder in time to the desperate bobbing of her head. The time was inappropriate for dreadful warnings. The inscrutable pitch of night was needed and that had long gone. Logic also dictates that in the event of any uncontrolled carnage centred upon you, the innocents closest to you will die along with you. Can you be as blas about my safety?or indeed anyone elses This was a different question, and one that allowed him only one answer. And that answer led him inevitably to a range of commitments surrounding his state of vigilance and other security concerns. He would later reflect upon the distinction she had drawn between himself and the innocents. Like Kafka, and being brought up a good Catholic, he had always accepted with variable ease the innate presumption of unspecified guilt. He had even learned to live a near-normal life settled on the precipice of discovery and punishment. But he had never envisioned the punishment to be realised as wholesale carnage for which he was indirectly to blame. A punishment which brought with it even more guilt seemed entirely unreasonable, always assuming he could retain guilt beyond death. And if he could, an infinity in Paradise, with guilt, was altogether a precipice too far! The perplexity of it all was writ large upon his face, particularly about the eyes where the writer had made some rather bad smudges. Jane read it as dire concern for what may follow and was pleased to have made her point at last. She wanted to rehearse with him the Special Rite she had 271

composed but time would not permit it and, in any case, Whisper seemed not to be in a very receptive mood. He appeared to have slipped into the ante-room of his mind where the windows were closed to the chatterings from the ether. She did, however, thrust a file of papers into his hands and secure from him a solemn promise to rehearse the details at some time during the day. Guilty! he thought as he left for work, So, maybe its true; maybe they are going to execute me. He couldnt get rid of the idea even though he could think of not a single thing he had done wrong. But then he remembered that his presumption of guilt was posited on the notion of universal guilt, both communal and individual. This brought with it the new insight that, surrounded by guilty people, there was a very strong likelihood that one or more of them could kill him; taking the guilties closest to him along with him! And the atrocity would attract no additional guilt because the victims were not innocent. Jane was right. He was about to die and the only remaining questions were how many would he take with him ? and Who and Where was the anonymous bastard that was going to do it ? ______________________ Through the persisting drizzle a spindly, and somewhat jerky, malevolent skulked unnoticed down the edge of the street. He kept his head down and folded himself like a miser over the secret bundle he was protecting from the rain. The malevolence was apparent rather than proven. But for the rest, there was an accumulation of features that conspired towards a clear and disturbing picture. He wore a tweed suit of a material that was far too thin and threadbare to be readily recognised as tweed. On his head he wore a hat that was nervously undecided as to whether it was a Trilby or something far less defined. 272

While it did offer some protection from the rain, its main purpose seemed to be given over to obscuring the face towards which ambition the addition of a pair of dark glasses had been provided as support. Sunglasses in the rain would have been a complete absurdity, so these dark glasses were the subtly tinted variety - they came in a pack, together with a monkey, a barrel organ and a white stick to beat out a syncopated rhythm. Damp from the rain, the sudden immersion into the central heating of the Hotel lobby caused the tweed man to steam less like the thoroughbred and more like the horseblanket. Alert behind the reception desk, Alice had him picked out a furlong away. She saw immediately a Mystery. At worst, she saw a strange man; and, however you view it, a man clearly being held hostage by his clothes. Such apparent unfamiliarity between a man and his own clothes was potentially illuminating. This alert judgement should not be misinterpreted as acuity or talent on Alices part. She had made very similar assessments of all who had crossed the threshold since she was told, in confidence, of the Mystery Shopper. This was particularly disturbing for the women guests who, for safetys sake, Alice chose to presume were really lustful men in disguise. Periodically her thoughts turned to Svolti, who arrived before the fateful call, and she wondered if she had missed her man. The secret bundle clunked as Jazz OvertonWilliams plonked it on the reception desk. He was a small man and the desk reached to his chest. The same would have been true for Alice on the other side of the desk but some improvised decking lifted her to waist-height and allowed her breasts to present themselves above the desk, contained behind the press of her smart business suit. Considerable thought had led her to the view that, for her purposes, bravely repressed passion was the most useful image to present. She did realise though that around the 273

edges of the presentation she would have to find opportunities to titillate and tantalise. Jazz OvertonWilliams just wanted a room but his purposes still remained unclear. Can I help you, sir she asked brightly. Yes, Id like a room please. It was all going very well so far. She asked him to complete a registration card, which he did, and proceeded to find him a room and a key. Smoking, Mr.Bowers? It sounded like jive-talk and Jazz seemed momentarily lost for an answer. Not only had the false name thrown him, but the realisation that smoking meant literally just that caused him further confusion. Given the copious amounts of steam rising from his suit, he sought to offer the receptionist reassurance that he was not in fact smoking as much as drying out from the excess of rain. Neither party was satisfied with the explanation. He needed a drink. Do you want a smoking or non-smoking room, Mr.Bowers? she repeated. Oh, smoking, please He never quite new whether he was a smoker or not until the urge actually came which it did occasionally. He thought it best to keep his options open. When his confidence deserted him in this fashion he was useless. He had just had to wait for it to return. Such clearly-unaccustomed nervousness was the stuff of dreams for Border Guards and Customs Officers. Alice, however, was looking for something else, and it wasnt this limp performance. He needed a drink. And do you have any luggage, Mr.Bowers? He threw a nervous glance to his secret bundle and then back to the appealing Alice. She cocked her head inquisitively to avoid repeating the question, although she knew the answer, having watched him walk in from the rain. Im hoping it will be along later. he chanced, and it was accepted. Adversity was a reliable spur to his 274

confidence, as Thumper had discovered, and he felt the embers start to glow. In a short moment he imagined he would be safe in his room with a warming drink and who knows possibly even a cigarette or a cigar. And is there a reason for your stay here? Alice ventured in a manner that suggested it was part of the normal check in procedure. Jazz was a man of a particular nature. The philosophical challenge held possible in the question never occurred to him but suspicions about its purpose did. Im here for the civic reception which I believe is to be held here tomorrow evening. Oh, of course, acknowledged Alice, returning to a more conversational manner. Youre not local then. Well, yes, fairly local he continued to monitor his suspicions, .but not so local that.staying over didnt seem a better option. You know, drink driving..and such ? You have a car? asked Alice, noting the steaming clothes and the absence of luggage. .Not now that.Im staying over.. he parried with some ease, .thats the whole point really! Alice could see lots of other bits to the point but had no wish to pursue the debate. She was no nearer to satisfying herself that he was indeed the Mystery Shopper and far from being able to eliminate him. She knew that she had to be on her guard for the unexpected and yet equally on her guard for the expected. Saturation bombing represented all of her strategies. ..and, of course, I have always wanted to stay at this particular hotel because I have heard such good things about it. he waffled on distractedly, and inadvertently triggered alarms. Alice picked up on what she thought was a cue; a test, and launched into a word for word testimonial from the company brochure, including mission and vision statements, and the final verse of the company 275

song. Few could ever remember the company song! And even fewer could sing it with a tremolo in the voice and a tear in the eye. The benefit of the performance was that it calmed all of jazzs suspicions about the motives of the reception. Alice was a woman of a particular nature. He recognised that. It probably showed in the slightly-windswept expression frozen onto his face - as if from the very blast of the song. Alice, for her part, was exhilarated and would probably would remain so until she got some more oxygen back into her system. Ive put you in room 210. Its on the second floor overlooking the atrium I think youll like it. Jazz smiled but held back any further comment in the hope that this may bring a halt to any further conversation. He lifted his clunking bundle and reached for his key. Ill show you where. said Alice, snatching up the key and, before he could object, summoning support from the back office to cover her absence. ___________________________ Saalaad abbu, Leppipu, agrownd sel remata tui in toto fricto; multo fricto; oh oh oh, aaah intoned Whisper with as much conviction as he could muster. His coffee was too sweet, and the e-mail pinged incessantly with endless confirmations from all and sundry that everything was going well for tomorrows VIP visit. None were addressed to him although he was technically the person responsible. He was merely a copy-recipient; to be kept informed. He felt like the boy king sat on velvet, watching his capable men play affairs of state to their own ends, with his own fate as the final wager.

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Saalaad abbu, Leppipu, agrownd sel remata tui in toto fricto; multo fricto; oh oh oh, aaah he tried again, with more authority and more boom. He remained unconvinced, and unconvincing, but was resolute in his commitment to learn the piece. It was imperative not only for his own status (especially with Jane) but also in respect to her anxiety about the possibility of dark deeds. As for the threat to his own life, he could not really take that too seriously. It was less of the cavalier in him and far more of the naif. As a man who had already confronted death across his own dinner table, without an excess of drama or disturbance, he retained a very distant view of danger. By accident or design, his binoculars were always the wrong way round. Invariably so was his underwear but, given his propensity for farting, this was yet another oversight that brought him more benefit than harm. Saalaad abbu, Leppipu, agrownd sel remata tui in toto fricto; multo fricto; oh oh oh, aaah. He was becoming happier with his delivery but this was just the first line. Admittedly, it was by far the most difficult since the rest was in a kind of english with which he was more familiar. Janes notes indicated that this first line contained the Magic albeit requiring a Magus to release the Magic while the rest was just formal greetings and the expected praise of supplicants to their Master. He thought that he was far more suited to the role of supplicant than Master but, in truth, he had scant knowledge of what was required of either role. He assumed that anything would be less demanding than that of Master but, then again, he could not recall anything too demanding in his last appearance apart from some severe scarring, a little aggression, some confusion and an unfortunate death which was, in the real world, largely unconnected to him. And as for the benefits ! Saalaad abbu, Leppipu, agrownd sel remata tui in toto fricto; multo fricto; oh oh oh, aaah. He was projecting 277

far more authority and belief in his voice now but there was still no Magic though he was unclear about the Magic. Once he admitted the Magic he would have established a possible link between himself and the alleged murder of the man with the flaming Goats head. He preferred to think of it as sacramental Magic; visible to only those who had faith, as in most religions. His developed agnosticism had purged and protected him from the profound kind of Magic that religion had brought into his life. Sadly it also excluded him from the protection that such Magic might make available to the faithful even if he did consider any such protection as illusory. He swayed slightly in his seatconsider. illusory.. He could see the holes in his bucket and the water spurting out like the blood of the true Christ but Saalaad abbu, Leppipu, agrownd sel remata tui in toto fricto; multo fricto; oh oh oh, aaah. This time he hit it full on! A resounding, thunderous incantation! In a flash a bird with the fire of an eagle and the stink of death sprang up before his eyes, flapping ferociously in abject terror. He instinctively screamed, jumped back and emptied the full contents of his bowels into his trousers with the sound of a squelchy spirit being squashed. Having been constipated for nearly a week, it was difficult to say where the real Magic lay. The intruding pigeon, however, had probably entered through the open window rather than the fetid portal to the land of the undead especially since it no longer remained undead, having smashed its head on several solid surfaces before coming to rest on the desk. Whisper was a little flushed and red in the face as he relaxed back into his chair in the hope of rediscovering some composure. Needless to say, his scream had alerted and attracted the security guard, so recently returned to work. Understandably, he had no affection or respect for Whisper so he accepted with some discomfort the awful smell that 278

emanated from his soiled trousers. The wild eyes, the red face and the slight, involuntary twitch were also no more than he expected. But the dead pigeon spread on the desk, where a man might normally rest his sandwiches, was just a bridge too far. He made to mouthe something but restrained himself with only a bulge in his eyes betraying the effort of the restraint. He turned and simply closed the door quietly behind him, booting it fiercely several times from the other side in a momentary frenzy which he presumably believed to be secret. He then calmly walked away and never ever mentioned the incident to anyone. ____________________________ On the second floor of the Hotel Alice led the thirsting Jazz to his room. Her casual, conversational interrogation had failed to reveal anything at all about his business, his background or his possible purpose. The man should have Mystery man tattooed on his forehead. Alice was aware, however, that the initial enthusiasm with which she had embraced this project had been a little overzealous. She felt this particularly acutely since, in the case of all six men, her efforts proved to have been misdirected. But on the positive side her pulse still raced with the continuing flush which lingered like insistent temptation; the smell of bacon frying. She unlocked the door for him and led him inside, pointing out all of the facilities ..bathroom over here.bidet and flush toilet not a hint of irony, .. wardrobetrouser press she threw him a glance, .French windowbalcony onto the Atrium..and ventilation.. She climbed onto a chair by the bathroom door and reached for a louvred vent which she slid open. But with her hidden hand, at the full point of her stretch, she released the button on her skirt which caused it to fall to the floor. 279

She was a very sexy women, in an everyday, accessible way but she of course knew that. And now, so did Jazz. In an instant she was down from the chair and recovering her skirt to its rightful position, with an array of apologies, as she edged towards the door. Still with a coquettish glint in her eye, she made it quite clear, should it become an issue, that the whole incident was a regrettable and embarrassing accident. She made it equally clear, in a totally invisible way, that it had all been completely intentional. I am extremely sorry if I have caused you any embarrassment but if there is anything more I can do for you, please do not hesitate to call me. You will always find me at the desk or around the Hotel. she said as she swept away, adding with a light, apparently-humorous touch, in one of the many nooks and crannies!. Jazz simply stared dumbly at the door, now closed behind her, and hadnt an inkling about what any of it might mean. Turning to the one predominant thought in his head, he tipped the contents of his secret bundle onto the bed and reached past the gun to the large bottle of mature, single-malt whisky. As Alice reached the top of the staircase that swept down to reception the persisting flush that burned inside her had now lifted from a controlled simmer to something a little more stirring. Beneath her at the desk she could see the broad back of another be-suited gentleman presenting himself for business. She loosened the buttons of her blouse to a full gasp below her breasts and skipped down the steps to relieve her stand-in. As a tactic this accidental debauchery seemed perfectly suited to her needs and her nature. Have you filled in a registration card? she asked breathlessly, sweeping aside the bemused porter. No, Im not staying. Thumper replied, that is..not tonight. 280

Josephine! she was well aware that humour could be very seductive. I beg your pardon? Napoleon. she sought to explain What? Thumper, we know, was an educated man. Bonaparte! she said with mock exasperation as if to a dull child. No more fucking names, you cretinous bitch he inevitably exploded, in a quiet, hissing kind of way. Give me a fucking sentence! Alice was mortally offended but just as she girded herself for the fight she recognised the trap. The difficult, unreasonable customer was the oldest trick in the book and she regained herself just in time. She also noted that the unnecessary introduction of the word fucking betrayed the underlying obsession of the kind of man she had been primed to expect. Im very sorry, sir. she smiled, It was just an illjudged attempt at humour on my part.you know, as in Not tonight, JosephineI did not mean any offence. I think youll find that that story is apocryphal! he smiled, or winced with sarcasm..however you wish to read it. I know that she replied, as if to indicate that she was no fool, ..youd expect nothing less of the French!but Ive had my fair share of apocraphylia! Fuck me! he sighed. It was a little direct, she thought, but broadly in the right area. She brought herself up to her full height and thrust out her chest revealing most of what her bra couldnt hide, her blouse having been pressed into full retreat. The smile was supposed to have a come hither quality but contained far too much of the manic. Too much for Thumper. It had been a trying few days. He turned and headed back towards the door.

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Ill be back tomorrow afternoon. If you could reserve me a room for two preferably on the first floor. Alice watched him go and could only presume that apocraphylia required some preparation, and possibly a quantity of heavy equipment that wouldn't travel well up too many flights of stairs.

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Chapter Nineteen
"How can you be certain that you hadn't just forgotten; that for some unknown but deep-rooted psychological reason you just had a blank in your memory?" "No. That's your particular problem." said the Inspector, "I'm certain that she hypnotised me." Gabbler wasn't convinced. Of the many things of which one might be 'certain', he suspected that 'having been hypnotised' (by the very nature of the experience) was unlikely to be one of them. The Inspector seemed to be a much-reduced personality in recent times. Insecurity clouded round him like a pester of midges. His setbacks at work seemed to have punched a jagged hole in his bucket, through which his self-esteem now leaked like blood from a butchered pig. And the spiteful damage he had recently visited upon Gabbler clearly bothered him still. It seemed to have left him feeling seriously in debt to the man. Unfortunately Gabbler did not see the Inspector's contrite attentiveness as a gift - but rather a fearsome form of stalking. Both were indeed motivated by very different types of fear. "There is no blank in my memory anyway." the Inspector continued, "I remember everything. And there was nothing strange about the conversation." "How can you know that what you remember amounts to everything? How would you know if there was a blank in your memory? You can't see something that is purposely hidden from your view!" "I don't know." he persisted, "There doesn't appear to be any gaps gaps in my understanding maybe, but no gaps in the events I thought I knew why at first but now I don't know why; I don't know why she opened my trousers and took out my cock and then 283

 She just seemed to observe that I was feeling comfortable and very relaxed, which I was but I still had a rock hard cock and nowhere to put it. It's the hindsight, you see. I can't imagine myself ever being comfortable or relaxed astride a rock hard cock; I think I would normally be more exercised; more of a steady gallop towards an impact so to speak." "So you do think that there may be bits missing blanks? That's why you think you have been hypnotised? You think that she may have already 'put it somewhere' but erased that from your memory?" "But why? And why would she leave the evidence sticking out - like a flagpole marking the spot! If I concede that there is a hole in my memory, I have to conceded that there could be several holes; hundreds of them! Anything is possible anything at all. She may have been naked herself" "Interesting thought!" said Gabbler, "I don't suppose you came across a tattoo?" he continued seizing on an improbable opportunity. "I didn't come across anything!" he replied somewhat bad-tempered, "That's the fucking point!" The Inspector wandered off in search of forgetfulness. Gabbler watched him go then slid from his bed and ambled off towards the shower. He longed to be bathed all over in some kind of solution. The water rushed down upon him as he stood reaching in the shower, re-aligning his body, stretching his arms skyward - like diver caught cold going the wrong way up a one-way street, liable to be waiting forever for a significant splash. "You're looking particularly fit today, Gabbler." said the nurse from behind, unusually hesitant, apparently due to a little confusion. She wasn't clear whether it was therapeutic duty, or just the practised eloquence of her twitching thighs that was persuading her towards sexual 284

distraction. Gabbler turned to defuse her threat, but he was betrayed by his cock, already primed into an alert position by the Inspector's tale and the insistent caress of the warm flowing water. Her dilemma largely resolved, the nurse discarded it, along with her uniform and joined him in the shower, retaining her underwear as a gesture of some modesty; its further removal an intended test of Gabbler's ardour. Her attentions stretched his ardour still further but while the flesh was now painfully willing, the spirit was plagued with undefined fears and apprehension. But in the debate on Body Language versus its more explicit, Verbal equivalent, the nurse always preferred the animal - although, contrary to malicious rumour, her normal language skills did extend beyond the 'grunt' and the breathy 'panting'. Like a gauche teenager in the grip of a more experienced woman, he was temporarily paralysed with a dizzying cocktail; in-bred good manners mixed with a rampant insurrection in his loins that held reason with a gun to its head. And the gun was getting bigger and bigger. As the nurse's lips slid from his neck and traced a slow decline down the front of his body, his horizon shifted across the top of her head to reveal, in the doorway, the expressionless psychiatrist. "Alice?" she said, giving nothing away, and strode towards the shower. Fortunately, Alice released her mouth from the grip it held on his penis and half-turned, on her knees, towards the approach of the psychiatrist. Gabbler pressed his back against the cooling tiles and made to speak but the psychiatrist, by then, had located soap and water on the slippy floor. And, as she pitched forward onto Alice, there were nasty clashes of heads, tiles and bumpsydaisies - with splashes of blood - all of which Gabbler managed to avoid. Like street fighters in a tropical monsoon the two women rolled in an animated fashion, though already unconscious, and came to rest in an untidy 285

slump. Water bubbled about them like pink champagne in some kind of mockery of a morality tale. Gabbler was confused and alarmed, but more than that he was transfixed. In the brief tumble before the women came to their uncertain rest, he had for a fleeting instant seen a mark on the shoulder of the naked nurse; maybe even a tattoo. But as he recovered and released himself from the bodies at his feet, a familiar voice interrupted his planned examination. He panicked. Not knowing if either or both of the women were dead, alive or just severely damaged, he looked for escape, and found it in the adjoining toilet through which another door afforded him access to the corridor beyond. Moments later the Inspector cam upon the improbable scene and initially mistrusted it. While he was normally a man ideally equipped to deal with the situation, he opted to simply mumble - an internal/external conversation with himself that had more to do with metaphysics than crime-scene protocols. Eventually, the psychiatrist groaned and raised herself from the shower, as if from a swamp, and lurched unsteadily towards the Inspector, besmirched with the blood and distraction of everyone's nightmare. Anyone but the psychiatrist would probably have received very competent help from the Inspector but He chose to flee and wait out the fuss in a different place. Gabbler did the same but realised his absence could only be short-lived. It was, after all, his room. __________________________________

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Chapter Nineteen.2
It had been almost a full week since Mr.Smith and the good wife had been revealed to the mystery, or vice versa. Nothing much else had intruded upon their pleasant, protected life. Certainly they were none the wiser about the details of the apocalyptic mission in which they were about to involve themselves. It seemed to be sufficient for their peace of mind that the mission was sponsored by somebodys God. And they were content that they themselves were far too inadequate to adjudicate between different Gods however many might be involved. Love the one youre with seemed to be the half-remembered mantra echoing down through the ages. And while the good wife hoped that this wisdom had been handed down through scripture, she suspected that it was just the hook from a Hippie pop song. Whatever!?..A hook is a hook is a hook. The esoteric had always been something of a haunted forest for the good wife, and Mr.Smith, for his part, lacked both the necessary wit and imagination to properly engage in it at all. As a result, they had spent their time on the far more entertaining pursuit of exploring their gifts, and learning how to use them. Neither of them knew that tomorrow was Thursday. Even had they known it was Thursday, they had forgotten that it was a day of significance. It was the day appointed as the beginning of the adventure. And, to some degree, they had prepared themselves well. Invisibility had been a real eye-opener for them and, hopefully, the complete opposite for everyone else. Blake had given each of them a secret password-command to trigger their switch from the corporeal to invisible. The spell seemed to hold sway over their clothes as much as 287

their bodies and whatever they happened to be wearing (or not wearing) made no difference to the process. The mere utterance of their password caused them to disappear from view instantly, or to return. Each had a different password the power of which persisted only as long as the words remained entirely secret, even from each other. In the early days when they had paid scant respect to this instruction, chaos reigned as each caused the other to disappear or appear by mistaken use of each others passwords. Since they always remained visible to themselves, even in their invisible state, they were not always aware of whether or not they were invisible. Being just the two of them they did not have the benefit of other independent witnesses to assist them. After a very short period of this level of confusion they both took on the haggard appearance of laboratory rats; like punch-drunk boxers careless to the prospect of more and more blows. Once corrected, they proceeded to become quite adept until, of course, they realised that the most effective ploy when confronted with the invisibility of the other was to become invisible oneself. In this state neither could see the other and lived in a world populated only by themselves. Understandably this became a lonely existence interrupted only by the occasional clash of unseen heads. An agreement was eventually reached when both had become a little tired and bored with the limited joys this particular gift offered them. Within their closed society just the two of them options were very limited. Blake himself was apparently immune to all of their gifts which did not work on him. As promised, Blake himself was always on tap for help and assistance. They had only to verbalise a question and he would provide the answer by means of a resounding voice in their heads. At other times, like a tannoy announcement system, he would issue instructions or information through the same channel. Although this 288

process was initially disturbing they eventually came to depend on the voice much in the same way that spacemen seem to depend on the Ships Computer. Through this means Blake, who appeared to have access to all their activities, was also able to simulate telepathy for them by keeping each informed of the others activities, however secret they were intended to be. Without editing or censorship, he kept both informed of each others every move. Even without editing, some understanding or interpretation of the activity was necessary to enable the articulation. Wherever possible Blake would try to provide this understanding by offering a meaningful context, but even he was sometimes defeated. He was at a loss to explain why Mr.Smith, in idle moments, seemed content to eat the contents of his own nose. The meaning and purpose of such an act evaded Blake completely. And, eventually, perhaps haunted by the same frustrated search for meaning, the good wife started to demonstrate the same behaviour. Individually the performance was stomach-churning, even for Blake. But his greater concern was that, now each were aware of this shared passion, they would come together like monkeys and pick morsels from each others noses. Being a God can have a very serious downside, just like Magic and New Technology. By far the most entertaining gift was the Remote Control. This was the promised gift that allowed them to speed up the action of life around them, remaining unaffected themselves. Or, in the same way, slow it down. Completing the set, just as one might find on the normal Remote Control for a Video or DVD player, they were also able to Rewind, Fast-forward or Pause. Altogether it was a most impressive toy though the philosophic implications of were quite profound which is why there was only one of them; one single Remote. Strictly speaking thats not quite true. There were two. Blake, they were told, held the 289

Master Control while the one that was given to them to share was a slave version. It carried all of the same features but any and all of them could be turned off by the Master Control. Their toy operated entirely subject to the permissions allowed by the Master,. permissions which, Blake assured them, would always be fully available. As with the gift of invisibility, a full day of mayhem and squabbling reduced the pair to the level of crazed and bewildered animals. After the melees, thrusts and counterthrusts where the control had changed hands many, many times neither were certain anymore whether they were both still sharing the same time. There were undoubted blanks and blurs for both of them. Only the most memorable, the most vivid or bizarre, memories seemed to have been retained and even these memories were fractured and disconnected. They had no way of knowing whether they were past or future memories, or which were just loops when they had been paused. They sat facing each other, mouths agape, exhausted and waited for the internal messenger Blake to recover for them the true sequence of events. But, either he could not, or would not. The lines were silent but the wires in their heads buzzed like annoying insects. The good wife had flashes of herself naked, and excited, with Mr.Smith and his dexterous use of a banana. Back in the present (or what she presumed to be the present), she could see two unopened bananas resting beside her on the couch. The knowledge was incomplete, and something she couldnt quite grasp still gnawed away at her. Mr.Smith had no recollections but several aches and pains across the whole, arid plain of his body. He also had a strange sense of anticipation which some might call an erection, but most would call a lifeguard (to throw a net over the fish). He felt tired and wondered if he needed the toilet. He had looked down and noticed that his trousers 290

were undone and couldnt, for the life of him, imagine why that should be, if he hadnt wanted the toilet. The good wife, however, could imagine, but did not wish to revisit those dreams. She became aware, at the same time, of this definite creamy taste in her mouth but couldnt quite identify it. I have programmed the Remote Control. said the voice of Blake in both their heads, From now on you will find that it will operate for only one of you at any given time. Until tomorrow it will be turned off completely. You need your sleep..though in that sleep of death what dreams may come.. From 8.00am tomorrow it will operate for one of you during the even-numbered hours of the day, switching to the other for the odd hours. It is up to yourselves which way round you wish it to be. Whoever uses it first will dictate the pattern for ever after. There was a familiar click; almost a bad-tempered, disappointed click, and then silence. They knew the silence and the futility of appealing to it. Like naughty children they dragged themselves up and headed for their beds. A hot drink? offered Mr.Smith. No, said the good wife, Ive got this taste in my mouth I cant get rid of. I just cant work out what banana. she said simply, and with a desperate sadness. At the very mention Mr.Smith inexplicably, but instinctively, reached for his bottom..and the good wife disguised the involuntary retch with a pretence of hiccups. _______________________________ Thursday had already been a busy and eventful day for Whisper and yet he appeared to be maintaining a calm, unstoppable efficiency through it all. He seemed to have 291

lots to do and lots to remember. And while memory was not his strong point, today he was in luck since the hectic collision of event upon event meant that no issue was out of his mind long enough to have to pass into memory. Obligations just cycled through his mind like clockwork, every time the cuckoo cooed he set himself off on another errand. Such thoughtless efficiency is why he found himself sitting, quite relaxed, in the reception lounge of the Hotel awaiting the presence of Velma Svolti. He had arrived far too early because he had stopped off on the way to buy some clean underwear after his accident at the Office there was some significant repair work to be done. He had, in consequence, taken himself directly to the Hotel toilets to effect the necessary clean-up exercise. By this means he had managed to avoid reception, and Alice, though this had formed no part of his intentions. But for Alice, intentions were there to be misread. Behind her counter, she held him in her gaze, as fixedly as a predator might hold its breath, looking for her moment. The lounge was empty and so Whisper felt conspicuous and vulnerable to the glare; an invisible spotlight-glare that seemed to have him trapped in his seat. From somewhere behind his head he heard the controlled clickety-click of approaching feet beneath the lethargic sway of a gunslingers hips. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder to catch sight of the svelte Svolti striding across the breadth of floor from the staircase. She wore a strapless shift that seemed to be balancing precariously from her breasts and which breathed like the wind on the flow of her body. As daunting as ever, she rode above an unhurried step with a certain gaze; a fixed stare, looking neither right nor left, with a smile twisting its way onto her lips but conveying nothing. His attention now taken in another direction, he heard, again from behind his head, the far more purposeful 292

march of the hurried feet he could only assume belonged to the receptionist. He turned to confirm this but was loath to turn his back on the woman he was appointed to meet. Above his head the gaze of the two women met. There was no warmth and while he knew nothing of any background between them (slight though it was) he could detect enmity. They held each others gaze through a substantial hiatus and Whisper was not moved to interrupt. He felt like an innocent bystander, or perhaps even the contested prey. Fortunately, these were the only two roles for which life had prepared him. He had spent most of his life in one or other, often confusing the two. Can I help you? asked Alice, being the only person with any authority. Whispers attention had been momentarily with Velma and so, when he turned again to Alice, he wasnt sure to whom the question had been directed. Im he made to answer but was over taken by Velma. Ve are ffine. she said, Mr Rounhead is a guest of mine. Not head wood! corrected Whisper. Not Edwood? Velma sought to confirm, with the inevitable degree of confusion. I think he said edward, said Alice, hoping to demonstrate a superior grasp of the situation, He is not Edward. I am vell avare of woo he is and woo he is not! replied Velma contesting control of the territory. No! Whisper waded in again to resolve the dilemma, My name not head, but wood Unsuccessful though it had been previously, he retained the same sentence construction in deference to Velmas doubtful grasp on the language. He thought that changing what he had originally said might cause even more confusion. To assist understanding, however, he had laid 293

great emphasis on the letter aitch. Need less to say, it had the opposite effect. not Headbut would. repeated Alice. No matter which way she said it, it still sounded like the last gasp of a dying man; some last, precious ounce of truth; a dying request. There appeared to be more to follow, but nothing more came. The secret appeared to lie in the dominant, breathy aitch. She paused to consider that the man might be asthmatic and in dire trouble but he was showing no other signs of obvious distress. For Velma the introduction of the larger-than-life letter aitch into the pronunciation had given the language a 3D quality that robbed her of all understanding. Even for Whisper, the expression on their faces was clear and he opted for complete clarity an approach he should have used at the outset but which was now always going to appear a touch too naked. My name is Graeme Roundwood. The definite and forceful manner of the declaration produced a predictable pause awaiting the real revelation, and I am an alcoholic!. Clearly the follow-up statement didnt come which, undeveloped, left the original declaration painfully thin. Alice lost interest and excused herself with just a single, furtive backward glance. She could, she thought, construct another explanation for the whole name charade. Maybe, at root, there was some confusion for this man between his real name and a false name his work had forced him to adopt. She argued, with herself, that only such an internal conflict could have persuaded him that the issue of his name was worth pursuing in the way that he did. She was half-convinced that he was a man with secrets and could be her Mystery shopper but she could not rationalise his connection with the Svolti woman. It was a puzzle she accepted that she might not solve immediately but decided she would have to fuck him anyway. Looking 294

back at this strange man she recognised the challenge and remembered all of her failed attempts at threading needles. No matter how many times she stiffened up the cotton in her mouth it would always buckle in the eye of the needle. Vill you come in my rhoom? said Velma with her usual, accidental prescience. Is that necessary? From Whisper it sounded like a plea from a man confronted with the worst of all possible routes. He fully understood what she had intended to say and it was just the potential risk of her room that daunted him. I vink so. Ve hav much to disgust and zis vill be our last chance. The argument was irresistible and put so convincingly that Whisper could not refuse. Refusal, he estimated, would have taken far longer than the meeting itself. She ordered two coffees and a bottle of vodka from room service and led him upstairs. I cant drink. he said, alarmed, making it sound like a skill he had not yet mastered. The only alternative his hurried mind could muster had been I will not drink. which sounded like petulance, at best, or, at worst, the declaration of a moral commitment; a warning that he would resist the force of any persuasion or torture she might be intending to use. Not even covvee? she asked, undeterred. Oh, yes, of course. he said, Coffee is fine although I do have to watch my intake of caffeine as nighttime approaches. Oh dear. she said, with nostalgic thoughts of vampires; intrigued when she really neednt have been. After the stairs they rounded several corners before reaching Svoltis room where she threw wide the door and ushered Whisper in. Like all hotel rooms it was unremarkable, although it was very generous in size. The double bed dominated the main area but left a small space 295

for a table and two chairs. Thankfully, from Whispers point of view, the room was not strewn with Velmas accoutrements and appeared very tidy, and business-like. He sidled into one of the chairs and drew his legs close under the table. His policy was to try and keep solid objects between his genitals and Velmas mouth. It was a simple policy but then Whispers perception of the threat was simple. As she approached the table Whisper quickly opened the meeting by asking just how complete the arrangements were. Velma confirmed that, as with all of her work, arrangements were meticulously complete. Lord Vellright vill arrive your Office at 10.00am tomorrow, she said, standing across the table from him, accompanied with myselve, twoo of his Departmental Heads and an escort of policemen vour of zem, all in plenclothes eggsept the Chief Constable woo vill be in is univorm. He vill visit with you until 12.00 exactly ven ve vill leave. You hav arrangements made from 10.00am to 12.00am, yes? Yes, I have.. Vine! she continued, Is not important vot you do. Ve leave at 12 exactly, yes? Yes! Votever time ve arrive, ve vill always leave at 12.00, yes. You understand, yes? Yes Whisper repeated, with relief, hoping for inordinate traffic jams. At 12.30 ve lunch with Lord mayor and then go visit around place, yes? You do not need this information, No? she did not wait for answers. At 5.00pm I vill return Lord Vellright to hotel here vere ve vill prepare for Civic Reception and Dancing at 8.00pm. All notables vill be here vrom town and I hav put you in a rhoom for the night reception vill give you key. 296

At 11.30pm Lord Vellright vill speech vrom stage to giv thangs to evrybody. Avter that official thangs are done and dere is no more. Ve leave on the mornink avter, bye-bye, see you all no more. Is this alright, yes? Whisper made to interject to say that accommodation for himself was neither necessary norbut he was halted by a look from Svolti that indicated that arrangements had been made, and would not be unmade, for any reason, at this late stage. It seemed to be a matter of policy and, in any event, Whisper thought, he was probably being far too paranoid about the fear of Russians under the bed. Just to be sure, he reminded himself to invite the angel Jane to accompany him. Is this alright? repeated Velma, in the absence of confirmation from Whisper. It did all seem far too easy, but yes, he said, it seemed very alright. He relaxed back into his chair. He then watched with concern as Velma slid into the chair opposite and listed slightly to the left as her hand seemed to disappear below the table. He had not fully thought through any possible responses to a direct attack. And not knowing the precise aim and nature of the attack he could only brace himself and keep on his mental toes, ready to spring in any direction. Adrenaline surged through his veins and he suspended himself from tenterhooks, in the very shape of a swoop. Velma righted herself and, returning her hand from beneath the table, produced a slim document case. With the tired efficiency of one expert in such matters, she extracted a sheaf of documents, in a transparent folder, and handed it to Whisper. You vill find evrythang in zare, yes? Yesss. said Whisper, thrilled to be so effortlessly informed. He greedily scanned the several papers to confirm their completeness and their usefulness. Velma

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was indeed a pearl. Everything was indeed prepared and logged in these magnificent papers. Engrossed and elated as he was, he didnt see one of the sheets slip from his grasp and surf the mini-thermals on a scything route that would take it under the table. When he then saw Velmas head disappearing beneath the table across from him, as she sought to retrieve the escaping document, the obvious reason was denied him and he slipped into a knee-jerk reaction. Quite literally, he threw out a boot which dealt the surprised foreigner a full-bloodied blow to the chin. Having never excelled in any ball sports at all, raw power was Whispers only skill. A little more finesse in his direction would have seen Velma simply falling backwards into unconsciousness. To use the footballing term, however, he really got too much of the ball which sent Velmas head crashing upwards into the top edge of the table before finding rest in a pool of blood on the carpet. Predictably, he was slower to react to the new set of circumstances than he had been to the original. He simply believed that he had killed the woman in a somewhat compromising situation. Neither was time on his side since he was aware of the pressing appointment he had at the coven that evening, where he was keenly expected to kill someone else albeit intentionally on this occasion ..and in a good cause. After what seemed like an eternity, he went into the bathroom, retrieved a hand-towel and cleaned Velmas head wound. Examination showed that the cut was not very deep and, indeed the bleeding stopped fairly immediately. He also noted the strong, continuous pulse which allowed him to assume that Velma was not in fact dead, nor possibly even badly damaged. The blow to her chin had also left no mark, and didnt even appear to have disturbed her make-up. he didnt know which country she originally came from but they were clearly a very robust people. 298

Realising the situation was completely recoverable, he listed in his head the simple things he had to do. First, he tidied the room. He did this not because it was the most important thing to do but because it was the easiest especially as the room was not untidy in the first place. He thought about leaving the woman on the floor where she lay, persuaded by the perennial, half-remembered advice of not moving injured people. But that, he knew, was only of relevance where one was intending to summon expert help; an ambulance or such like. Since he had no intention of doing so and, in truth, did not believe any such help was necessary he reconciled himself to having to make the body comfortable on the bed. He was reasonably convinced that Velma was unconscious and would remain so for quite some time. And this thought eased his prime concern which surrounded any further indelicacies that might transpire between the two of them while he was manhandling her. She was not a big woman, and perfectly proportioned, but Whisper himself was not a big man so he had difficulty lifting her from the floor. Part of his problem lay in his total lack of coordination and dexterity. It was like a clumsy ant wrestling with a particularly dead leaf - without resorting to his mandibles, use of which was a complete mystery to him. In the end he turned to the only effective method he knew which was to push, drag and roll her across the floor and up onto the bed. Velma was not dressed for such rough treatment her loose shift became the first casualty of the exercise. Initially Whisper persisted in righting the clothing every time his efforts disturbed it. eventually, however, he came to understand that the two activities fought against each other and he abandoned his concerns for decency. And, as with all such downward spirals, he soon became inured to the indignities his grabbings and pushings visited on the near-naked body. Nearing the end of his work, he had 299

Velma splayed beneath him with her back arched against the end of the bed when there was rap on the door. Instinctively, his eyes darted to the table to note the absence of both coffee and vodka. He froze in silence and prayed the moment would pass. Had this been a normal room service delivery the moment would have passed in the absence of a reply to the knocking. But Alice, the renegade receptionist, with her separate agenda had relieved a very grateful waiter of this duty. She herself had arrived with the coffee and the vodka and, after a peremptory knock, marched straight in. Her joy at what she saw was barely contained, as was Whispers dismay. Oh, Im so sorry! she said, with a poor imitation of embarrassment, Would you like me to leave? Whisper hadnt a clue what he would like her to do, and remained frozen in his ungainly position. Both parties in the tableau being so unnaturally still, Alice presumed shock had taken them both and so did not realise the state Velma was in. Whisper desperately wanted Alice to leave but didnt know if he could allow her to leave without debriefing her. And, at the same time, he lacked any confidence in his ability to effect a satisfactory de-briefing In particular, he had not developed a workable explanation for Velmas unconsciousness. The truth would have taken him most of the way but the awkward bits the injuries and the nakedness relied upon an acceptance of an unbelievable level of incompetence on his part. When the silence and the stillness had been stretched far too far Alice took the initiative which had been so obviously presented to her. Can I offer you a hand in any way? Whisper could find no escape from the silence and only the anguish of yet another question; another decision, showed upon his face. Like a child discovered by its mother amongst the debris of its own naughtiness, he wore the expression of a man emerging from a bout of demonic 300

possession. As if in a scene from the silent movies he sought to explain the scene through the pitiful hang of his head as he panned the room. But no workable answers came to him. Alice grew tired of the impasse and, realising that logic, reason and language were denied her, she set about stripping away her own clothing. Apart for the poor, unconscious Svolti each was seized in the grip of their own mania. For Alice it burned in her eyes with a raging lust, while for Whisper it dribbled from his quivering lip, betraying the appropriate degree of system failure. By the time Alice had reached her final piece of underwear Whisper had started to make inroads against the silence, but only in the form a tuneless. high-pitched hum. This was the only true audible expression of his anxiety. Alice, in the meantime, knew nothing about catatonia or the simple failings of the grossly incompetent, but she had some inklings about shock. As she strode, naked, towards Whisper the pitch of his humming rose, like a Geiger Counter, until she was upon him, unleashing a jolting blow across his cheeks. The clear intention was to bring him back to his senses. Sadly, Whisper was already far too far away from the furthest outpost of any of his senses, and so he reacted to the attack instinctively those instincts born in the early dawn of civilisation. He returned the blow, with interest, and Alice crumpled to the floor beside Velma. Where Alices blow had failed in its attempt to jolt him from his inertia, his own hefty thump had worked a treat. He leapt to his feet and looked down upon the two naked women. At the very moment that he realised that he now had two unconscious, naked women on his hands, Velma stirred and edged towards waking. The new situation was markedly worse than the previous one.. One naked woman remained unconscious while the other, still fairly-naked, was emerging from unconsciousness to demand why she was 301

fairly-naked. With inspiration from nowhere, he splashed the vodka over the recumbent bodies, drained the coffees, picked up his papers and fled but not before taking a rose from the vase of flowers, biting it softly across the stem and casting it casually to the floor. He would never be able to deny his visit but he hoped that, on their waking, there would be too many items and uncertainties to disable any acceptable understanding. This was certainly the case for Whisper and he had access to all the pieces of the jigsaw.

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Chapter Twenty
"Carpenter." he said, "Professor Carpenter" Gabbler felt ill-equipped for a new voice; a fresh eye. Another enquiring mind might discover a new perspective, throw new light on things. But somehow he thought that they had all come close to a comfortable consensus on the way the world is; the Inspector, the Psychiatrist and the nurse. Although he had to admit that the fracas in the shower had been desperately untidy and maybe it did scream out for some kind of intervention. "Jane," he nodded to where she sat beside him, "Jane has brought me up to speed on where things stand but as a psychiatrist, she appreciates the crucial need for objectivity which means I have to validate, for myself, her account, and her perceptions. Savvy?" "Beg your pardon?" Gabbler definitely didn't like 'savvy' but even he realised, too late, that his reaction to it seemed to have cast him some yards adrift of the persona, 'primitive' ingenue, he had become. His memory loss might explain his disposition towards involuntary existentialism, but he had never demonstrated anything less than a high degree of articulation. "I'm sorry." Said the professor, "I simply meant 'do you understand?'" "I know what you meant." Replied Gabbler with a firm finality, intending to re-establish, in the ambiguity, some uncertainty. "Good." Said the Professor, "Then we understand each other perfectly. Perhaps we can talk more fully tomorrow. For the moment, at least, all I wanted to do was to introduce myself." And, with a very friendly manner, he raised himself up to leave along with the psychiatrist.

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Bemused though he was, Gabbler had no wish to offer up any more unsolicited reactions for the Professor's consideration. It was normal, for anyone, to be guarded with a new acquaintance; a new voice; a fresh eye; another enquiring mind. He considered it no risk, however, to make courteous enquiries after the psychiatrist's health 'though he was perhaps also a little preoccupied with the possibility of any consequences which may not have been revealed to him. "I'm pleased to see that you appear fully recovered after your unfortunate accident in the shower. I hope that the same is true of our nurse?" Both stopped by the door and momentarily looked quizzically at each other, before the psychiatrist cast a caring glance back in his direction. "What accident?" she asked, with what seemed to be genuine bemusement and a little concern. Even more disarming is that she displayed, neither in speech nor gesture, any glimmer of the familiarity he might recognise from their relationship as he had seen it develop. Maybe, he thought, Professors really do have the power to change things. _______________________

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Chapter Twenty.2
Breathless. In the Old Mansion House the large basement room was empty but prepared, and inside nothing moved. The air was still and a little stale. Without movement, there appeared to have been no exchange of old air for new air. Like a still spot in the universe there was no suggestion of flow, or breath; no intimations of a pulse, nor any other indications that life had or could survive here. Even the light from the candles and torches seemed to just huddle around the fame, with neither the will nor the energy to ray out like an unrestrained song; like a trumpet. There was still time yet, of course, and in various other rooms people were excitedly preparing themselves. But in this room there was a cathedral silence, and the presence of an immense power that held the whole place .. breathless. For all the significance of the occasion there were still squabbles in the back rooms. Perhaps it was the tension or maybe it is in the nature of all such extra-curricula activities to be riven with such petty jealousies and schoolyard rutting. Where nakedness and outrageous licentiousness were essential elements of all and any rite they engaged in, there was a required decorum and civility to be observed in the robing rooms. This was never easy to maintain. While bare bodies and unrestrained writhing was in the nature of all their rites, and very arousing, there remained still something of the ceremony about it. In the changing room, however, where adepts still retained their everyday personas, in their everyday clothes, the casual, unselfconscious stripping often proved more exciting visibly so for some men. Engaging ones sexual side in this environment, however, was the equivalent of getting drunk on the 305

communion wine in the vestry. Predictably it happened every week and it was always the same characters involved the women who enjoyed the opportunity to display the power they had in their undressing; the sweating men who fought fruitlessly to hide their erections; the impotent men who prayed loudly and vigourously throughout their undressing as a pretext to explain how they prevented any erections. There were the confident men who stood proud with their erections occasionally loosing their cannons; and the confident women who often helped the confident men, and their cannons, in a variety of ways. And then there were the zealots, sometimes husbands, who looked to fight, occasionally succeeding in feeding that hunger; and, finally, the one man who stood there week after week proclaiming in a loud angry voice Fuck me! Every bleeding week the same fucking thing! What is this! What is it with you people? Every Fucking week! Fuck me!.. etc., etc., etc. apparently completely oblivious to the irony of his own weekly contribution. On this occasion the customary squabbling had quickly come to blows, across a wider range of protagonists than usual. Again, it may have been just an overflow of the unusual level of tension or simply a lust for blood and scars to impress the visiting Magus with signs of stigmata, proof of intimacy with the dark forces. It would be indiscreet to speculate on the impact of Janes absence from their changing room following her recent, sudden elevation. Jane, with her new responsibilities, was elsewhere talking with her master, the Magus, in preparation for the rite to follow. The Grand Master himself, Whisper, had been delayed by events at the hotel and was still to arrive. While Jane was clearly concerned about this, she retained great composure. ____________________ 306

Breathless. It was not an unusual state for Whisper, as he burst through the main door, gasping for air. On the last occasion he was at the Old Mansion House he had only stumbled upon the main ritual room by accident. And when he left, he was almost comatose, and had been escorted out by Jane. All of which meant that he remained unfamiliar with the layout of the premises. Given that he was late, and getting later, he launched himself into the corridors like a lab rat desperate for electric shocks. He secured himself a robe, as he had done on the previous occasion, and quickly put it on losing his own clothes in the process, as he believed one was supposed to do. Thereafter he moved to head on downstairs, as he had done last time, towards the ritual room. Instead he was distracted towards the significant clamour coming from a room further along the corridor. He wasnt to know that it was the main changing room. He entered as if into a world created by Heironymous Bosch. Scattered about the room as if by an earthquake, there were bodies everywhere, at every possible angle, in a variety of states and engaged in a perplexing array of activities. Blood and other bodily fluids were smeared generously across the whole scene. And a cacophony of grunts reflected the mixture of ecstasy and severe pain emanating from the sex and violence, in equal parts. Whisper froze by the door, for no good purpose, until gradually he was spotted and recognised. A stuttering wave of silence spread across the room as activity ground to a halt and they looked to him for rebuke and direction. The last to see him was a couple just in front who were so engrossed in some frantic shagging that they were oblivious to the change in atmosphere. All eyes now focused on them, desperately wanting to give them the required nudge, but desperate not to be seen doing so. The moaning and the sighing was rising to a sweaty crescendo 307

when the eyes and the silence hit the couple like a terrifying visitation from a half-remembered nightmare. The glistening man leapt to his feet and stood to attention above the still-spreadeagle woman lying on her back on the floor. But just as he raised his own eyes up to Whisper in penitence, the fruits of his labour exploded from his penis and spurted like unabated passion all over the body of the prostrate woman. The massed crowd, with one single voice, issued a full-bloodied gasp of embarrassment and excitement. It trailed off with a deep, resounding rumble, like the tail of a disappearing comet.Oooooooohhh ! Fuck me! said the familiar weekly voice, Never saw that coming!, again missing the complete irony of his declaration. Only momentarily distracted by the madman, all eyes returned to Whisper who was predictably lost for words and severely embarrassed. And the embarrassment, combined with all his other agitations, found its usual expression. He broke wind, in a fairly controlled and respectable fashion, emitting a low phutt-phutt- phutt sound like an outboard motor. The wind itself billowed his robe around his feet as he turned and swept away, for all the world, like a hovercraft set fair for the Isle of Wight. Levitation combined with forward movement and a onehundred-and-eighty degree turn was an impressive maneovre which drew massive appreciation. The single voice gave its heartfelt OOOh! of genuine amazement, but Whisper had gone. _____________________________ For Whisper it had been a desperate experience but one which he had survived and, as result he was emboldened. He felt that the worst had probably already happened and, in consequence, his anxieties were 308

converted into indifference. It wasnt that the experience had changed him, it was simply that his mind was somewhat numbed by it; like the kick of a powerful intoxicating drug. It was new territory for Whisper. He was relaxed. This much was apparent as he swaggered into the side room where Jane sat entertaining the Magus. The Magus sat in a royal purple, silk robe with a gold mask of inscrutable expression. The nose was hooked like a hawk and the eyes were set deep in holes that seemed to hold them captive. Disarmingly the eyes seemed to be able to operate independently of each other although, in his present state, Whisper could not be sure that this was an effect only he could see. Jane sat across from the Magus at a small, occasional table. She had presumed to fashion for herself a white robe of a very fluid silk which set about her body like molten metal. As he came in Jane greeted Whisper with an excited rush and offered him a new robe of crimson silk, similar to their own. She asked him to put it on before she introduced him to the Magus. Whisper did so, albeit removing to a dark corner to do it, and returned resplendent. The Magus rose and the three of them came together in the centre of the room in a sombre splash of colour like a German entry in the Eurovision Song Contest. May I present the Magus, Leppipu the 303rd. said Jane. Whisper held out his hand in friendly greeting only to have the Magus look down upon it in the same, wary way a pet dog might look at food first offered by a stranger. He was more amused than offended though it was difficult to read any expression through his mask. Whisper looked to his eyes for a clue but got no help. While one bore into him like a laser the other seemed coy and appeared to have retired to hide somewhere in the back of his head. Slab dabord! the Magus said, and bowed slightly as a kind of nod. He sounded like a New York gangster and 309

that was enough to give Whisper pause. From over the Magus shoulder Jane mouthed to him to reciprocate although it took some time for that message to get through. Slab dabord! said Whisper with a bow that for some reason seemed to include a curtsey. Whisper managed to give the delivery more of a Welsh feel though this did not really offer any more warmth and carried the same degree of threat, in a more sinister way. They told me you were a strange one. the Magus continued, again with more amusement than rebuke. part of the new breed, eh? Impatient with tradition; all action; up an at em; wham bam, thank you, maam, eh Few would have recognised Whisper in any of this summation but he knew enough not to contradict the Magus. He merely smiled weakly and adopted what he considered to be an impatient pose - only to appear as if he had been seized by a fit of petulance on discovering that his best friend, Miguel, was also intending to wear pink at the annual commancheros ball. It had the desired effect as it confounded the Magus even more. I still have my doubts about the new way. the Magus continued, almost introspectively, but I am old, and maybe the ways of the world have changed, and maybe we must change. Apparently you have great powers. But powers on their own are not enough to secure you greatness. You are new to us; a stranger, but I am assured that you have been chosen. Given the particular problems we face in these dire times, it does seem a little reckless to be still absorbing new people; strangers, even in the lowly ranks butGrand Master? The ways of logic and reason are not ours. So I will quite happily leave right now, should you wish. The confidence of this masterly bluff lay in the fact that it wasnt a bluff. Whisper desperately wanted to leave. Only the concern to save face with Jane kept him there. If 310

the contrariness of the Magus moved to expel him, his escape would be blameless .. if he could manage a few well-chosen words he might even leave as a wronged prophet; an unrecognised Messiah; even a martyr. Notions of martyrdom dragged him solidly back to earth, and he was forced to wonder if, once in the coven, it was ever possible to leave.alive. I am sure you would, the Magus seemed saddened by the impasse, but you wont. The real drawback in prescience; in being able to see the future is that it takes away the clarity of the decision-making process no matter when you view it, at the moment, with hindsight or in anticipation. You have been chosen and you will be here. So .crim stoll gud waller ten tumbello ik wit ant filer facks. Wad dafug! Whisper couldnt be sure that this wasnt an escalation of his debility. He always had trouble with the logic of the magic but at least he had understood the words. He had already had trouble with the eyes and now the ears appeared to be cracking up. At the very point he was about to make an appalling attempt at a response, he realised that the man was speaking Magic talk and that he himself didnt understand Magic talk. This was reassuring for his own mental condition, but left him totally at a loss to know what to say. This level of ignorance was an admission too unsafe to make. From nowhere, fortunately, Jane suddenly appeared with two brimming goblets of soup-like red wine. A drink before the ceremony? Im afraid I dont drink. repeated Whisper as he had often done before. Damn and Blast! exploded the Magus, with some restraint, Is there no end to your disdain for the old traditions? Is there no he couldnt finish. He harboured the real dread that the new Grand Master might be a vegetarian. He threw back his head and poured down the wine before disappearing through an adjoining door.. 311

Five minutes on the altar.. he said, to indicate their next meeting, Wad dafug! Both stared for a moment at the door through which the Magus had passed and entertained disappointment. The disappointment was not so much for his parting as the manner of it. Whisper had expected a far more imposing presence with a will that could not be denied. Instead he had seen an aging Chairman of the Board undermined by an army of anxieties about the ways of the modern world. He must have always know that Magic, like all other natural energies, is attendant on its time. Its temples, its theatres, its religions were merely the context through which access was controlled and power realised. Jane, as usual, shunned the abstract. Are you sure you wont drink some of this? Whisper was very sure. His grip on affairs was already tenuous and, with what he had yet to face, he needed all his horses to be blinkered and pulling in the same direction. He was not a drinker in any case not since the wedding. The merest touch of alcohol was likely, at the very least, to soften the supporting bones in both his legs. It will do you good. she persisted, . calm you down.. But he wasnt to be persuaded. And in a mad moment of panic he remembered that he had left the notes for his introduction in his jacket pocket down the corridor. But just as he was about to race off to recover them Jane produced a duplicate set, presented in a leather cover so that they appeared old, treasured and important. His relief overflowed so tangibly that he kissed Jane affectionately on the lips by way of a thank you. She appeared a little taken aback but, sensing a new giddiness in his spirit, she proffered the goblet of wine again. Are you sure? Whisper was still very sure. At his request, Jane ran through proceedings again with him and confirmed that,

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following his introduction, his role would be entirely as a follower rather than a leader. Where are? there was no prospect that Whisper would remember the names of Jessman, Oscar and Casdan but Jane, as with all other things, had matters in hand. I have spoken with all three. They should already be on the altar waiting for you she said. Are you sure? asked Whisper. And Jane was very sure. Suitably reassured he made to leave for the ritual itself but then turned, as the thought just occurred to him, to invite Jane to the Civic Reception at the Hotel tomorrow night. For the second time in quick succession Jane was taken aback. She did seem genuinely stunned and was locked in the pause of a stare as her eyes seemed to be pursuing a parade of calculations as they raced across an invisible page. Whisper took her gently by the arms and regained eye contact. Of course, she said, That would be brilliant. I do know all about the event, of course, from the publicity but I didnt imagine I would be going myself. I really am thrilled. Its only a civic function. said Whisper, a little bewildered by her excitement, I wouldnt build your expectations up too much.. Jane recognised that her excitement appeared to be beyond his understanding.. Dont you see she said, If we are going to a dance tomorrow, it means we are not going to be killed tonight! It was the kind of logic that was fit for any occasion, and the very thing Whisper wanted to reminded of right now. He briefly hugged her then they both turned and walked out into the ritual room, both looking skywards for doom, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. ____________________ 313

Doom never comes in quite the way you expect, nor at the time you expect it. But even when it doesnt fall upon you it sometimes sounds like this... Standing centre stage, at the back, was the Magus in his royal purple, flanked by Oscar and Casdan in their disappointing black satin. At the front, before a simple, bare altar, stood the Grand Master, Whisper, in his brilliant crimson silk. A little behind, on either side of him stood Jane, shimmering in white and Jessman, in black. From the distance the came the sound of voices gathered together in tune, but only just. One could just discern the doleful hum of a Gregorian chant which had clearly spent time in eastern Europe on a diet of bread and water. The volume rose as the robed figures, carrying the tune, snaked their way in procession into the room, swaying from foot to foot as if to indicate some terrible burden possibly the hymn itself. They came to a halt in serried ranks across the room before the altar, and the dreadful chanting stopped. Their were twenty-five of them. There should have been twenty-seven to ensure the involvement of the magic numbers - three and seven - but the fracas in the changing room had seen two acolytes removed to hospital. This might have been considered inauspicious. While the various torches and candles made the room very warm, they provided insufficient light. The deficit was made good by concealed lighting controlled by a dimmer switch. And a fine piece of theatre enabled the effect to appear magical Jessman raised his arm as Casdan turned the switch in synchronisation. The fact of this affectation was an open secret to everyone but the newcomer, Whisper, who remained singularly impressed, and not a little in awe of a man who seemed to be demonstrating real powers.

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Slab dabord! Jessman proclaimed, spreading his arms to the ceiling in welcome. He must have turned his arms off at this point since there was no visible effect emanating from the gesture, apart from the crackle of static electricity across the cheap satin. The greeting was reciprocated from the body of the floor together with the accompanying gesture. Static rippled back and forth across the room like timid gunfire with a few muffled screeches from the overly sensitive. Jessman bent low from the waist before Whisper and stretched his arms out in front of him to indicate. The Grand Master Whisper was entirely uninformed about any reciprocating gestures and, because of the high quality silk he was wearing, couldnt rustle up any murmuring static to punctuate the exchange. He strode forward and laid down his script on the altar. There was an immediate exclamation of outrage from the single voice of the massed audience and Whisper realised he had committed some indiscretion, or sacrilege. He had earlier decided that any admission of error or incompetence was not an option and so he simply held up his hands to calm, and reassure them. They remained decidedly uncertain but went along with him as Whisper sought out firmer ground. Slab dabord! he offered and received a grudging response. Modeling himself on the priestly Uncle James, he spread his arms as if for a blessing and, instinctively, brought them into what was approaching the sign of the cross. The single voice drew audible breath in increasing horror until Whisper twigged and extended the gesture into an unholy alliance of sufi, tantric sex and the out-takes from a Marcel Marceaux concert. The audience were intrigued, mystified and, by the end, just a little nauseous as - one might be after an unexpected ride on the Big Dipper. He immediately took advantage of their momentarily mollified state to leap in with his introduction.. 315

Good Evening. he was already ad-libbing, as a consequence of some panic and some poor judgement on his own part about the instability of his relationship with his audience. Good Evening. Thank you all for coming, and I would like to welcome you to what promises to be a most memorable occasion. It was an introduction most often encountered in the Cabaret Lounges of Las Vegas Hotels but hereIt was almost satire; it was as if he was trying to de-stabilize the audience. Almost as one, you could see the heads of the audience slowly list to the side in bemusement, like the sad dog who cannot for the life of him see why he is being asked to beg or roll over. Coming into the ritual, there was already a considerable amount of residual bad feeling among the members as a consequence of the unresolved disputes in the changing room not to mention the grumpiness and displaced energy resulting from coitus interruptus. It was an audience with issues, and the last thing it wanted was someone taking potshots at their certainties and toying with their expectations. Even Whisper knew things were going very badly and so he abandoned the improvisation and scurried back to the safety of his script. He looked to offer them the certainty of something they knew.the magic. Saalaad abbu, Leppipu, agrownd sel remata tui in toto fricto; multo fricto; oh oh oh, aaah. Sadly the conviction and the confidence had gone so he only succeeded in trampling all over the sacred words with the casual disinterest of an old world tribesman passing on cooking recipes to a television crew. The restive rustling notified itself to the podium through the increasing cackle of twitching static as Whisper backed out of the firing line, head bowed in obeisance, in the manner demonstrated by Jessman. The Magus! he said and edged quickly to the rear of the stage. The magus remained inscrutable as he strode forward or at least his mask did. As they passed Whisper 316

just heard a perforated hiss, spat out like machine gun fire but caught no words. Behind the mask he just caught sight of the eyes, bouncing as if controlled by a one-armed juggler with the hiccups. The Magus was not impressed and with some justification, thought Whisper. It had been far more disappointing than his last performance here but he realised that you couldnt guarantee the high drama of a killing on every appearance although towards the end of his embarrassment he came close to offering himself up, had any available means presented themselves ..maybe that had been the plan. The mastery of the Magus was profound. He had already started intoning as he strode forward to the altar, and responses were fed back to him with the discipline of good soldiers. The dialogue was all unintelligible to Whisper but flowed like poetry or theatre as the ritual hiked up into full tilt. Chanting and processing interspersed with shouting, and the drawing of patterns on the floor. There was a certain practiced humdrum and familiarity about great parts of it which reflected on the faces and manner of the officiating priests at least in all the Masses Whisper had previously been to. Was it tiredness, or ennui, or perhaps simply abject humility in the throes of the miracle. These enigmatic men avoided such assessments by means of enigmatic masks which kept safe the reflections on their faces. And the unmasked; the audience; they reflected nothing on their faces. Like the undead they rested their faces and merely shuffled from foot to foot as directed .. although, on this occasion, the embers of disquiet that Whisper had managed to ignite still sparkled like carelessly discarded cigarettes. Whisper rode shotgun, scanning the horizons for danger, having just remembered that there remained a threat of death, assassination or massacre hanging over the place. As for the rest, all at play, they either had total faith in him to protect them or had completely forgotten the 317

danger. In any event, it was all in the lap of the Gods, or the Devils, or whatever. Eventually, the ritual reached its accustomed climax when the selected virgin was brought naked to the altar and duly blessed by the Magus in person, first by the symbolic caress of a dagger and then by the conventional use of his penis. Whisper had averted his eyes at the very appearance of the naked woman. She later described the experience as more like interference than possession, and became very aggressive when others suggested that a virgin would not really be capable of such fine distinctions. Fine distinction!? The man was a fucking no show! she had screamed, sounding less and less like a virgin. The Magus had gone on, however, to bless several more naked women on the same altar, with great success. Some of them quite genuinely preferred interference to possession while others had already had a glut of possession in the changing rooms before the ritual had started. The rites of blessing were then passed down to the assembled masses who shed their robes and threw themselves enthusiastically into full-blown writhing, moaning and fornication. On the high altar, the Magus and his lieutenants absorbed the energy created and directed it upwards to their Dark Lord through a catalogue of harmonious incantations. The malevolent assassin had failed to appear and, with little else in his favour, Whisper was determined to take full credit for their safe passage. That, after all, had been the target set for him. On the floor, ritual frenzy was disintegrating. Old scores were being settled with increasing vigour. Implements were used, in particular the torches and candles which were being flailed about in both defence and attack. The fracas escalated as the walls became populated by giant, lurching shadows from the torches, presenting and 318

even fiercer and more confusing picture of the ensuing battle. Quick-thinking, Casdan threw the dimmer switch and took out the main lighting in the hope that it might stun the crowd and quell the riot. The effect was, of course, to throw the monstrous shadows into even sharper relief and engender even more irrational fear and desperation. Some of the combatants were frightened by the shadows and started screaming and this in turn became infectious as many were unsure whether the battle was with each other or whether the dark forces had actually turned upon them. From the stage the fog of battle was even thicker. Whisper was not a brave man and there did appear to be people getting very seriously injured down there. Jane was typically detached from the scene and seemed decidedly unconcerned happy to be separated from it. Jessman, however, felt the burden of responsibility to restore order. But before he went down to reason with the voracious melee, he thought it wise to leave his dagger behind, and out of reach of murderous hands. A shard of escaping light bounced like fire off the cold steel as he made to pass it to the Magus for safe-keeping. This, of course, allowed Whisper to anticipate the dark deed he thought was about to happen under cover of the ensuing mayhem. In an instant he had leapt across the stage and thrown the Magus to the floor with an uncontrolled elbow to the face My eye! My damned eye! being the baleful shout of the tumbling magician. So loud and pitiful was the cry that it caught the attention of the brawling masses who turned to attend upon the action on stage. Jessman, having witnessed Whispers attack on the Magus, identified him as the treacherous assassin and turned his dagger in defence of the Order. As the two men circled each other like prowling wrestlers, Jessman lunged and Whisper dodged and parried. The unfolding drama caught the attention of more and more of the tiring 319

combatants beneath until all were rapt by the single fight on stage. Like a Shakespearean play the two men danced around the stage in a slow and thoughtful game of victory and bloody loss. And in the pit beneath the sweaty audience were silent in awe, greeting every move and parry with the oooohhs and aaaaahhs of their single voice. As Whisper tired his moves became slower and more predictable. In direct proportion Jessman was gaining more and more confident, and becoming increasingly more aggressive. And, at the approaching death, Jessman thrust his dagger, on the run, at Whispers chest towards an inevitable conclusion. And, as Whisper stepped back, he stumbled and fell backwards over the crawling Magus who appeared to be oblivious to the fight and, apparently, searching on the floor for an eye. This left Whisper flat on his back. So when Jessman followed, thrusting forward at greater speed, his stumble projected him beyond the oblivious Magus - and the surprised Whisper - in an elaborate forward roll. Ooooh! gasped the single voice as he came to rest with a resounding thud against the far wall. This represented no great tragedy. Nor was it too alarming when the impact dislodged the flaming torch above to fall and drop into his lap. The real tragedy lay in the fact that his cheap satin robe turned out not to be satin, but something considerably cheaper and far more flammable. He reached terminal flame velocity before his head had even cleared. This appeared to be the second successful death at Whispers hands, and his preferred weapon was undoubtedly fire. As for the coven as a whole, there was nothing like a killing to satisfy the raging blood lust. And, in the longer term, the prognosis was good - two weeks, two deaths and a mass riot. As a hero of the dark side, Whisper was, without doubt, the most promising that they had ever had. 320

Chapter Twenty-One
"How little we know." Professor Carpenter sighed. Gabbler knew it wasn't a philosophical statement but, somehow, an indictment. Quite who was to blame remained momentarily unclear. But what remained even more unclear was just who the Professor was including in the "we" and, consequently, the distribution of the knowing. Did the "little" that Professor Carpenter and his colleagues knew constitute more, or less, than the 'little' Gabbler knew? Or were they the same; exactly the same; very unlikely the same. The professor offered to summarise but there was surprisingly little to summarise. He made no further reference to the psychiatrist who had not returned with him today. And Gabbler had already decided on a policy of offering nothing to the discussion that had not been directly demanded of him - so he never enquired of her whereabouts. In answer to a simple factual question about the circumstances in which he was originally 'found' he did, however, direct the professor to the Inspector. Strangely, this only provoked a look of quiet and quizzical surprise across an interminable pause. For the first time Gabbler feared that the ground beneath his feet was a potential abyss. Through the breathless eternity of what was a relatively short pause, he feared that the Inspector was to be revealed to him as a fiction of his beleaguered mind; a mind driven, too recently, too fast and too often around impossible corners and switchback bends. He desperately wanted something solid to support him - a hard back chair and a drink of water for a dizzying man. He desperately wanted to ask just how long he had been in this place but he couldn't.

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"I'm afraid the policeman was the victim of a fatal accident yesterday." Said the Professor, "I'm sorry, I thought you knew." Gabbler was uncertain whether he knew or not, but judged it safe to insist he didn't - and it did indeed prove to be safe. It did not, however, take him any further forward. "How did he die?" he asked, judging this to be a reasonable response which was devoid of any obvious subtext. "His death was entirely unrelated to his contact with you, with his work - in any specific sense - or any part of our discussion. For the moment, at least, I think that's probably all we need to know? Anything else would be a distraction?" Gabbler wanted more but wasn't confident or agile enough to discover grounds for demanding it. The Professor was either very, very good or as equally unarmed as Gabbler. It remained either an inscrutable 'stand-off', or a frustrating impasse - difficult to guess which. Gabbler was no longer certain of the objective of the game - if, indeed, he had ever been certain, and if, indeed, it was a game. He didn't know what the rules were for winning or, more particularly, losing. All he appeared to know, with desperate certainty, was that he could not afford to lose. He clearly needed a strategy that would reveal some of the cards the Professor was holding. But an equivalent strategy, or ineptitude and indifference, enabled the professor to keep his cards hidden - assuming, of course, that there were cards. He needed to discover the real roles and context for the psychiatrist and the nurse, but needed to do so without first revealing anything of his own context - which might prove to be entirely imaginary. He felt that the risks were too great - against the professor's undeclared 'knowledge' unless he was able to surround any enquiry with the distracting shards of his own, conceded(?) mental instability; scrambled inside a code of his own apparent 322

conceits. He didn't know just how good the Professor was, and Gabbler was never a gambler - however close it might seem. "I keep seeing a tattoo" He volunteered in what was an inspired gambit but one which was as safe as gibberish. "And what does the tattoo look like?" asked Professor Carpenter with a degree of interest that could be apparent or real. Gabbler knew that he, himself, had played brilliantly, instinctively, catching the ball with the full meat of a perfectly-angled bat - only to see the sleepy fielder at third slip leap lethargically to his right and parry the ball with his fingertips. But Gabbler was already half way down the pitch with no option for reverse "A monkey, I think." Gabbler found safety with a controlled dive; a controlled drive, shaking off his pursuer with an abrupt left turn. "A capucine?" offered the professor, distractedly possibly. "Such a mystical creature beneath a monastic cowl. But then there are so many different types of monkey, I suppose The chimpanzee - so often the clown but maybe the most intelligent of them all?" The Professor cruised past Gabbler's abrupt left turn and straight on, with only the merest glance in the direction of the fleeing patient - now crashing through dustbins in an alleyway far too narrow for escape. Shrill as reveille, the fire alarm brought down a timely curtain and everyone, forgetful of procedures, leapt for exits like zealots to lifeboats while some, of course, sought advantage in the chaos. _______________________

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Chapter Twenty-One.2
As usual, morning at the Hotel was busy. This was going to be a very busy day. Alice awoke like a junkie, wide-eyed and desperate. A shower had failed to soften the sharp and jagged edges that disturbed her comfort. She had difficulty dressing since it appeared that all her desires demanded less, rather than more, clothes. There was an internal struggle against each article and she paced the room, wrestling the contrary forces; trying to exhaust their raging energies like a cowboy with a bucking bronco. But she couldnt escape the truth of it. She wanted to buck! Thats all she wanted..to buck and keep on bucking .and of course advancement, another voice had intervened, ..promotion.. her just desserts. But for the moment, at least, she might just have to just buck. Jazz awoke in his usual fog and wondered where the hell he was. He was no longer surprised or disgusted by the empty bottles and his only concern was the fact that they were empty. He did not suffer headaches. He was well beyond that stage. It was just the fog; always the fog; the fog that a drink might clear, and keep clear..for at least another day. Thats the way it was for Jazz, and his drinking ..one day at a time. It was like those lonely boats in old films, chugging through the night fog. He could hear the constant bump and strain of the muffled engines below, and the doleful hoot of the foghorn like a stuttering heartbeat. It seemed inevitable that he would eventually get lost in the fog, hit something and drown but not today. This was going to be a very busy day. Thumper hadnt slept. All of the forces in his life seemed to be converging and he feared some kind of metaphysical conspiracy. In consequence, if he managed to sleep, his dreams offered no sanctuary. He would have 324

welcomed a fog but he was cursed with a glaring clarity that allowed all the elements of his life to be onstage at the same time, forming unholy relations with each other. The control had been wrested from him and was now in the hands of some accidental alliance. He was destined to spend the night in a Hotel and attend a civic function. He was directed to do this, first, under orders from his superiors in pursuit of his current investigation and, second, the demands of his girlfriend, Mr.Smiths sister, Charlie for her own, unspecified reasons. Among many other things, he had already encountered a particular cleverness that he didnt like, and certain powers that he didnt understand - and only half believed. He had also acquired ghosts that had not only added considerable depth to his life but had also, apparently, built substantial highways between his various levels of consciousness, thereby bridging the previously-unnoticed abyss between the real and the fucking MENTAL! He had also suffered sex, blackmail and, in the case of the receptionist, malevolent stupidity. This was going to be a very busy day. On a not-too-distant country road, Mr.Smith and the Good wife lounged in the back of Blakes super car, speeding through a seamless panorama of billowing dales towards an unknown destiny. Like children embarking on a school trip, they had been roused and breakfasted at an ungodly hour, staring gormelessly, with sleep still in their eyes, towards an excitement they were not yet awake enough to express. After so many days under house-arrest they were happy to be going anywhere, and while they were returning to the very town from which they had fled, they seemed fatalistically unconcerned. They had been dressed and prepared entirely by Blake, not because they were themselves incapable but because it was his show and he was far, far more capable. For disguise he had gone for the simple but with a touch of genius.

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Both were coiffured, dressed and generally presented as the most elegant and handsome couple one could ever imagine. It quite literally took ones breath away to see how beautiful they were. For Mr.Smith, however, there had been some additional props. To afford him more gravitas he had been given spectacles and a neat beard ..and, more surprisingly, a dog-collar beneath his exquisite, dark mohair suit. Priests, by their very nature and appearance, seem to be protected from any intrusive questioning. And Blake had been taken from the outset by Mr.Smiths obvious odour of celibacy. No doubt, when they had both awoken more fully and saw themselves in the mirror they themselves would be dumbfounded by the transformation .unless they just thought it was magic. For the moment, however, they rested. This was going to be a very busy day. Jane slept late. Whispers dreams had been wracked with images of apocalypse and violent death. He awoke like the Mummy rising, lifting from the horizontal to the right-angle with the fluidity of a spring released, screaming in a muffled fashion as one does when ones face is still frozen in sleep. Finding Jane uncharacteristically still motionless in her own sleep he feared she was dead and leapt upon her, shaking her vigorously. Such a violent awakening led her to assume that Whispers blood lust was now overflowing from Ritual to reality and so she headbutted him ..demonstrating not only remarkably developed survival instincts but also surprising technique. Whisper was well-used to waking up prostrate on the floor and in pain so he recovered himself quickly and assessed the burgeoning bruise on his forehead. Reassured that Jane was still in rude health, and indeed very alert to the threat of any kind of death, he removed to the bathroom. Jane pondered. There was no mark on her forehead, nor was she suffering any after effects of the blow she had dealt. Neither had there been any aftershocks 326

from the events of the previous night. The full investigation of Jessmans body and belongings had not yet been completed. Although he was an unlikely suspect, nothing could be ruled in and nothing could be ruled out. Jane, for her part, gave these matters little thought and neither did Whisper. As far as he was concerned there had been just too many events, of which too many had been too complicated. He had enough on his plate, he thought, .which is how it all started. This was going to be a very busy day. At the office he was gratified to find everything operating as normal with no signs whatsoever of any apprehension or concern among the staff. This was principally because there wasnt any apprehension or concern. No-one cared at all apart from Whisper, and possibly the Police or, more specifically, any of the Police in a position to attract blame if anything went wrong. Even Wellright didnt care and probably considered the whole performance to be a complete pain which he would rather do without. Even if Whisper had the benefit of this perspective, it would have done him no good since these same, indifferent people will immediately start to care if something terribly unforeseen does occur from which they may be able to profit. Whisper immediately checked the Managers room to find it unchanged and Priestman still missing. Discovering in himself a pragmatism he had never used before, he set about Plan B and rounded up the shivering Williams. Williams was not cold, just simply very frightened, like a thin dog beaten too often. Having installed the poor man in the Managers Office he briefed him on his new role as Manager. Quickly Whisper ran through all of the items on the desk and in the room to ensure Williams familiarity. He struggled for the identity of the young Cambridge graduate in the picture frame on the bookcase. It was obviously not Priestman himself, 327

although there was a family resemblance. He guessed at a relative though no-one had ever discovered any relatives, or indeed friends. They found nothing else to trouble them apart from a generous supply of whisky in the drinks cabinet. Whisper warned Williams against strong drink and rehearsed him relentlessly. The drink was for guests only and that the he, Williams, did not take any drink at all while at work (unless its thrown over my head like acid, thought Williams, at last finding some courage to exorcise his rage). In any event, Whisper reassured him, Wellright would be with him for no more than about five minutes so the room or its contents would not be an issue. Williams courage deserted him and he made to catch Whispers eye and plead for escape. He wanted to engage the empathy he thought that they shared, but strangely Whispers display of competence threw him. He was no longer sure that this was the same man he thought he knew. He was frightened, and frightened of everything. He juggled all his fears but couldnt find the confidence to drop any of them. Youll be fine! Whisper reassured him from the door, but he knew he wouldnt. He would never be fine again. He had been told as much by professional people; people far more frightening than Whisper, even the new Whisper. Wellright was late. He was thirty minutes late and, while Whisper might have hoped for an even greater delay, he was thankful for small favours. Wellright hated being late. Only three cars arrived, two of which were police cars, and Wellright himself was accompanied by only one Special Branch minder and Svolti herself. Whisper stood by the Reception desk ready to greet the visitors when, as if watching a film, he saw the dogged security guard stop them unceremoniously by the door and demand 328

identification. This particular security guard also doubled as the occasional receptionist, and the occasional messenger. And it was in this latter role that he had come to know Whisper best .but not fondly, or with any respect. Wellright looked at the petty official with his good eye while the other seemed to loom up from the deep like a killer shark and suddenly grab onto Whisper. There was definite recognition but Whisper, for his own, part saw it as the faculty all great men have to recognise useless twats immediately. Whisper gently edged the messenger aside as the disconnected eye never left him.. I can vouch for these people, theyre But the rules say that no-one, repeat no-one should. the messenger was arrested mid-flow by the good eye, sour though it was. Were you in the war, soldier? Wellright asked with a deceptive show of interest. Yes, sir! replied the messenger, snapping to attention at the soft tones of undeniable power. .suffered brain damage, did we? Wellright hissed on the expiry of his patience. Sir? The question was genuine and his bafflement sincere. Irony and sarcasm were luxuries which could not be safely afforded to soldiers. The messenger would spend the rest of the day contemplating the we and trying to remember in which theatre of war their paths had crossed. He wasnt an expert in trajectories but he could readily see that the bullet that had taken the mans eye out would certainly have gone on to catch at least some of his brain. He could only imagine the damage referred to must have been to the bits the protect the bits of memory. Fortunately his own memory remained totally intact and he wasnt about to be edged out by anyone far less a pissing little wanker who fed on the blood of pigeons. A surreptitious ankle-tap as they walked away saw Whisper tumble 329

forward onto the floor, taking Svolti with him and finishing up spread across her like an eager lover with no sense of place.or apparently balance. I know you. Wellright hissed, sotto voce, into Whispers ear as he wrenched him powerfully off the perpetually disappointed woman. It was a clear and secret warning. And Whisper recognised the warning. He had many of them recently, particularly from the police who also saw him as a congenital prat who was likely to be a dangerous liability. At least thats how he interpreted the remark although he too was given pause by Wellrights use of we to the messenger. It was possible, he thought, that the man was suffering serious delusions following his accident and really did believe he knew everyone. The Special Branch man was predictably alerted and, in the pretence of helping Whisper dust himself off, managed to frisk him for weapons. The only weapon he found, in passing, was Whispers penis and, inexplicably, this surprise contact in such a strangely charged circumstance gave Him a momentous erection. It was impossible to hide nor could Whisper make any move towards it without drawing even more attention to it. everyone could see it and each assessed it differently. Svolti gave herself full credit on the basis of their recent tumble on the floor, and was desperate to wrap herself around it. She still had no recollection of what had happened in the hotel room but the bruises and the scratches were teasing reminders of the sheer animal power of the man. She had discussed it at length with the similarly-disheveled receptionist but neither could offer any clue as the true events, and, in the absence of the man, they had spent the evening together in a passionate and physical celebration of his mystery. The Special Branch man was fairly certain that he had been the person responsible for the erection and was not only physically revolted but also a little afraid. While 330

he had been commended for his courage and bravery on several occasions and would willingly dive through plateglass or wrestle with crocodiles, the prospect of being wooed and pursued by an amorous male made him nervous and almost impotent. He had every intention of giving Whisper a wide berth throughout the duration of their visit .if terminal violence was to be avoided. Wellright was disgusted, not at all surprised, and a little affected himself. An internal dialogue saw him at war with himself as he fought to withstand a clear physical reaction in himself that may have revealed a second, and possibly even more embarrassing erection. He could only hiss like a venomous snake and shake his head in Whispers direction; part lust; part love; and part hate of the kind a religious man might feel for the prostitute he has just spent. By the door, the messenger had to be physically restrained by the police..who made mental notes about the mans volatility. This isnt the first time, he was mumbling with increasing anger, referring to the unfortunate sequence of unsavoury episodes that described their acquaintance, Hes been doing this to me for weeks now. That mans an animal! The police readily recognised the flaming jealousies of a spurned lover and dragged the man away to cool down. Had it not been for supreme will power and a little physical restraint, they might have all fallen on Whisper .two trying to shag, one trying to kill him and a fourth trying to throw him through a plate-glass window ..just because that was one of his areas of expertise. The moment passed, the erection remained and Whisper led them away to see the Manager, Wellright continually whispering in his ear.I know you. Svolti also managed to catch his eye and a secret ear to indicate that she wanted to speak with him with him also. 331

At every step he was being silently badgered by both of them, each of whom seemed desirous of a private word, away from the other, and away from the man from Special Branch who missed nothing and was consequently keeping very alert. The effect of all of this was to make Whisper walk faster and for the pursuing pack to press closer, taking on the appearance of a headlong race. The man from the Special Branch found this very strange and very alarming, but in a way he had never experienced before that is to say that there was probably some fear and apprehension in there; the unpredictability of mad people. Travelling now at an unnecessary speed, the whole group burst into the Managers office with all the impact of a surprise raid on a treacherous dissident amidst dirty deeds in his den. Williams had been very nervous about his role from the very beginning. He felt it had been forced upon him, and while that is often the making of great men it is usually the breaking of lesser mortals. May I present Lord Wellright. said Whisper on the quickened flow of a breath. And almost before Williams could stand, or remove the terrified expression from his face, Wellright himself appeared over Whispers shoulder with the breathless desperation of man determined to get the silver medal. Williams instinctively pulled backwards and to the side with the effect of the onrush, only to be surprised by Svolti who suddenly appeared, coming at him from that angle. Being behind the others, and not maintaining a safe breaking distance, she had seen the desk too late and had, in consequence, had to swerve away in a wide arc. The man from the Special Branch found himself in an identical position but had to swerve the opposite way, presenting to Williams the second arm of the pincer movement. Williams was overcome and reduced again to shivering; the thin dog with the memories of beatings.

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Youre not Priestman! barked Wellright, and indeed he wasnt. To be accused, so vehemently, of not being someone else left Williams no escape beyond admission, and perhaps a plea of mitigation that he was unaware that simply being oneself was an offence. I didnt realise that you had met Mr.Priestman before? said Whisper with a commendable degree of composure, and a genuine portion of surprise. I havent. barked back Wellright, somewhat defensively. Then, how do you know this isnt Mr.Priestman? This wasnt Whisper being clever and wresting control, it was just the real, curious confusion of a child who simply doesnt understand. His name was in your notes. said Wellright, regaining composure, Manager Mr.Prentice Priestman ..I simply remembered it. The one name one must remember is the Managers name. I dont know the man. This admission shot holes in the theory that Wellright thought he knew everybody, or maybe not. It was all very tiring, and the visit was only some twenty minutes gone. A sharper man would have left it there but Whisper But there was no photograph so how.. Wellright saw the difficulty coming and turned upon Williams. Are you Mr.Prentice Priestman? Williams just looked at him. He had left his homework on the bus, the dog had ate it, his mother burnt it by mistake thinking it was King Alfreds cakes, it was stolen by an older boy with a mask who he would never be able to identify ever again and, if you didnt believe him, you could torture him til he died, he would never tell, never, never, never..dad! dad! dad! He just looked at him.

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Is this your room? There was no respite, and Williams could feel a slight watering about his eyes. This whole charade was totally misconceived but misconception was Whispers speciality. He leapt in to explain that, of course, Williams was not Priestman but just his deputy. For the time being, Williams was the Manager and so this was in fact his room. Williams felt better and hoped the tears may have gone unnoticed. It was just a mystery how, if you had never met either of them, you knew that Mr.Williams was not Mr.Priestman. Mystery? said Wellright, in difficulty but still managing anger, And where is the missing Priestman? He apparently suffered a breakdown, and appears to have gone missing. No. said Wellright, warming to the task, My question was Where is he?. We dont know. conceded Whisper. Would that be another..mystery? Technically not, thought Whisper. While the answer to both questions were unknown, they were in no real sense unknowable. He looked Wellright in the eye as if measuring the distance such a response might travel and in what condition it might arrive. The experience of the past few weeks had obviously taught Whisper something because, for possibly the first time ever, he opted for pragmatism and self-interest. Quite possibly, he replied, but anyway, I will leave you with Mr.Williams who will entertain you and introduce you to some of the other staff. Williams head twitched at an angle, like a bird that caught the rustle of a threatening approach he didnt quite understand. No doubt I will see you and Miss Svolti later this evening at the reception. Yessss! they both said, each turning to fix him with knowing looks neither of which Whisper really 334

understood. He backed towards the door, holding all eyes including those of Williams which span in disbelief and terror. When it became clear that Whisper was actually leaving he dropped to his knees, spent of energy and emotion, and pleaded with a fairly quiet but lamentable desperation Dont go! Please dont leave me! Looks like were about to lose another one. said Wellright with a scornful glance, Someone better grab hold of him before he goes missing. The man from the Special Branch took him too literally and wrestled the shivering dog to the ground causing him to scream and sob like an hysterical child. Men were not supposed to be so soft; they werent supposed to cry, and the man from the Special Branch didnt like it. He could have silenced him with one good kick but had to be satisfied with just walking away. Perhaps it would be better if I showed you around said Whisper, with clear regret though which regret remained unclear, If you would like to follow me. He led them quietly away and completed the tour without further incident. And as with any baby you leave to cry, Williams screams got louder and angrier echoing all around the building. The staff were left to guess at what had been done to the poor man and their anxiety about this uncertain threat showed on their faces. The leading group were deaf to the sound, however, and remained stony-faced. And eventually the noise subsided as Williams slipped into that hiccupping, gurgling sleep that only babies could find. Fortunately the gurgling could not be heard outside of the room, otherwise there might have been a general panic. There might have been a breathless concern that the poor man was trying to hang himself with the improvisation of what few suitable aids that were available to him.

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All in all, the visit passed off quite well, albeit something of a damp squib. The minor, pitiful mishaps that had occurred had merely served to disturb and distract and thereby mitigate the worst excesses of the irascible Wellright. Everyone had feared far worse, apart from Williams - and even he had managed to find some eventual peace.

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Chapter Twenty-Two
Gabbler had come a long way, and he had made the final part of his journey in his pyjamas, through the gathering gloom. Irrationally, or otherwise, he had fled under cover of the fire. He had suddenly discovered discomfort again in his sheltered room and found the encroaching confusion too threatening to endure. Opportunity arrived entirely 'on the moment' and, although it wasn't just an impulse, the elements of his puzzle had synchronised themselves into an appropriate fit. He had made his escape, not really knowing from where, or to where. And, in that sense, it wasn't really an escape at all. It was simply another path, or maybe even the same path destiny? If he truly had no real access to his history; no apparent continuity in the path thus far, any notion of Destiny would be denied him. He had found his way beyond the garden and the surrounding copse to a larger meadow. This offered access to more trees and, through the falling darkness, the sound of water. He didn't imagine he had walked very far but he had no accurate perception of just how far. Evening was drawing on and, through the warm autumn air, he could see perhaps no more than twenty yards in any direction. But there appeared to be nothing to see. He wondered if he would be pursued but suspected that the fire would absorb all of the immediate concerns of all those available to be concerned. A wider search would not necessarily be instigated until it had become certain that he had not perished in the flames. They may never, of course, secure that certainty. So, nothing confronted him. Potentially nothing specific awaited him All of his landscapes were empty - physically, mentally and philosophically. It was a dizzying vacuum that sucked at him like strong drink.

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"Is that you?" suddenly said a voice. Given his unanchored mental state, it could have been a voice whispering forth from deep within himself, but it was soft, gentle and decidedly female. Approaching from the half-light, he saw a lessconfident woman whose crisp white shirt and tailored skirt had been severely compromised by the fire. Little of her shirt remained and her body was splashed liberally with ash and soot, the very parody of a plague of tattoos. Her skirt similarly was split to the point of uselessness, but her legs seemed to have avoided the worst of the fall-out from the fire, just dust and the sweat of frantic exertion. Cometh the hour cometh the man or , in this case, the woman. Of all the needs that Gabbler had at this moment in time, a psychiatrist was the most urgent. He didn't speak and she presumed shock. It was an effect she had herself just endured, and managed to minimise with the familiarity of an expertise that now seemed to be hardwired into her. Observing Gabbler's desperate condition she was immediately catapulted back into an alert and competent state. For his part, Gabbler could only gaze, transfixed, on the vast conundrum of tattoos around her shoulders and back. He did not question this desperate yearning; the unstoppable quest for the single tattoo that would offer an answer to a question he had already forgotten. Quietly, calmly, efficiently and in a very reassuring way, she talked to him about events, the fire, his predicament, in a matter of fact sequence to coax him towards some understanding, and discover some ease. She busied herself about him but could not establish any meaningful contact. His eyes perpetually danced around her body in a slow, but somewhat disorganised, search pattern. He said nothing. She managed to persuade him the short distance to the water; a gentle stream knee deep in the coming 338

moonlight. And in a very mild form of shock treatment she had little trouble floating him into the cool, fresh water. She herself joined him, without need of persuasion, to wash away the scars of her own trauma, and help rouse her from any residual lethargy. Inevitably, the water not only washed away the dust but every single, microscopic trace of the fire from the psychiatrist's body. Gabbler did not bear any scars, or disfiguring dust - not externally anyway. And they both emerged from the stream clean and bright into the beaming eye of a full moon bringing more and more light to bare. In the strange, warm glow they stood before each other, as still as statues, exhausted and dripping, like wrestlers paused, and softly panting, amidst their sweat. Slowly Gabbler circled the psychiatrist and scanned every inch of her naked body which was now bereft of all markings. And when he returned to face her she was allowed into the mystery. "The tattoo?" he asked, like a highwayman asking for money, only her life being an acceptable recompense for any possible refusal - no matter the injustice of the demand. She simply looked at him non-plussed and seemed to have no genuine understanding of the question. At which point, far too early; far too unexpected; far too 'unexplained', he picked up a nearby stone and set about trying to beat it out of her mercilessly in the moonlight. And only at the point of exhaustion did he drag himself up, and away from her, and down to the river, with his stone, where he offered himself up to natural things. _________________________________

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Chapter Twenty-Two.2
Jane looked stunning in red. Her dress swam about her like enveloping flames in a tidal dance of light and shade. The colour flowed like old wine and, forever, her sensuous form impressed itself fleetingly against the seductive sway of the fabric, as she walked like a natural force across the room; at times demure, and at other times almost stripped bare into the blinding light. The reception room was comfortably full of dignitaries, with an equal amount of the obscurely notable. Decoration was sparse since the room itself boasted the ornate indulgence of fin de siecle grandeur. Circular tables, vested in crisp Irish linen, were arranged informally around a wooden, sprung dance-floor. This casual tone persisted through to the absence of a top-table although the table designated for the guests of honour was clearly identified. On a modest stage a small band struggled to fade further and further into the background, intending only to provide cover for the unexpected gaps in scattered conversations. It was already 7.30 and people were arriving, at a steady rate, to indulge in an unwise cocktail before dinner at 8.00. And amidst all of this Jane remained stunning. Her skin seemed iridescent and almost pulsated with controlled heat. Her face glowed with the soft transparency of a cultured rose and her whole being seemed animated with a restless energy as she weaved her way through strangers in search of the truant Whisper. Their plans had been exact but, as always, Whisper could not match the depth of his love with any depth of concern to be attentive or, at the very least, prompt. At the reception desk there was no Alice. She was away, searching out the big prize, like a pig nosing for truffles. Under the impact of her recent, more visceral 340

experiences the big prize had slipped back into the shadows and she no longer had a clear view of what it might be. Her work ambitions still offered the most tangible expression of what it was she might want but that prize, she knew, was all to do with power. And just recently she had discovered another untapped source of power which offered her so much more. With sex you could actually see the raw, physical power, and the sweat. You could feel the heat and the rat-a-tat-tat of explosion in the groin, rattling your windows like an earthquake; the tremor at the back of the eyes; pallid and quivering like the passing of a fever; like the passing of a death. In short, this was why there was no Alice at the reception desk. She was away in search of fresh blood. Thumper, still in his room, was particularly grumpy and increasingly disassociated from the world. He had spent an unsatisfactory night in the hotel, in the bed, in the arms of the insatiable sister Charlie. But he had still failed to discover any plausible reason to account for her desperate desire to attend this dull reception. She was patently and pathologically a career-pirate on the sexual seas, pillaging profit wherever it might be, but he failed to recognise that as a feasible raison detre. Typically this was just a lack of insight on his part. Profiteering was indeed her sole purpose in life. Like a trapeze artiste she swung from opportunity to opportunity in hopeful pursuit of advancement, always risking the fall into the sea of critical faces. The secret was never to look down; never, ever consider the audience. He was none the wiser about his own role at the reception. He had been instructed to attend on the basis of some garbled rationale surrounding Whisper, who was going to be there, and the temporarily mislaid murderer, who was not. He himself could see no connection but the implied criticism embedded in the sarcasm persuaded him against argument. There was also some talk of secret 341

intelligence and a possible assassination attemptthe poverty of detail meant that the target remained uncertain and the motive even more so. As V.I.P.s go Wellwright was a veritable minnow, with no stale smells emanating from his secret closet. The threat did not warrant a full scale operation. It just required Inspector Jenkins to be aware and alert. His own lowly status meant he was not cleared for any more sensitive information even if there were any. The briefing hadnt fired him with renewed sense of purpose. His self-confidence was already dangerously low in any case, not helped by his recent failure to impress sister Charlie last night. Dont worry, was how she greeted the failure, without any remote indication of concern, Itll come back. Obsessed with words and meaning, he considered she was accusing him of some biological dysfunction in his firing mechanism ..that he would likely be projecting his own sperm back into his own testes like a blind fireman on the wrong side of his engine. Sister Charlie, however, had managed to discover deep sleep before he had chance to take the matter up with her. There was, at least, some relief and comfort there for him, though it is a poor reflection on ones self-esteem to find contentment in being ignored. Jazz had woken like a bird of prey. He remained entirely still while his eyes darted around the room in search of threat. Having discovered none, this fact was reported to the brain which then had to search through its untidy mess to recall why a threat had been thought likely. This was a slow and laborious process at the best of times, but copious amounts of alcohol had left his brain in the same state as a low-lying cottage in the grip of seasonal flooding every piece of paper on its desk was sodden and illegible. In consequence, he had remained in his bed, in this debilitated condition, until early evening when he was 342

wrenched from half-sleep by Brewholder on the telephone from reception. Where the hell are you? he screamed. .and Jazz was tempted to answer simply Yes! Thats exactly where I am!. He couldnt actually see the flames but neither could he explain the heat, and the sweat - which ran off him like distilled spirit. It was as if the flooded cottage in his brain was now leaking out through his whole body. Brewholder had been forced, by unexplained circumstance, to attend this god-awful civic reception and while Jazz was not invited, Brewholder had wanted him there, on hand. And what was clear in their unequal relationship was that whatever Brewholder wanted, Brewholder got. Jazz put down the phone and dragged himself from the bed. He paused and looked sourly at the gun lying on the bedside table before passing on to the bathroom, trailing his fetid waste behind him like a slug. Wellwright was already cocktailing in the main room. He made small talk with the dignitaries and occasionally scanned the horizon in search of Whisper. He recognised Jane, of course, but made no acknowledgement of the fact as did she. Observers from a distance might have imagined them illicit lovers as their attentions were similarly drawn, both lifted their gaze and cast intermittent glances like radar above the interference of heads; their eyes inevitably drawn together in a sudden bump of exaggerated embarrassment. Youre havin a laugh, int you! one such observer was heard to say, but not in response to suggestions of illicit love. More mundanely, it had been pointed out to the slow-witted observer that Wellwright only had one eye. Naa! Youre confusin im with Hitler. the slow observer continued. I think youll find thats balls. 343

Yeah, well Fuck Off! replied the slow observer who thought he had recognised an urbane insult, by far the most acidic of all insults. At a pace the same observer then skulked away into the distance lest his remark be misinterpreted as aggression, or bravery. Like the lady in white from a nineteenth century ghost story, Velma plotted an aimless course across and through the arrangement of tables. She had clearly taken too many blows to the head in too short a period of time. She bore before her an unworldly smile that seemed locked halfway between euphoria and utter bewilderment. Restless as an ephemeral spirit lost in the an apparent dislocation from her own death, she seemed to be searching for something but finding nothing. Wellwrights attempts to gain her attention were met with a total absence of recognition Another man might have pursued this with some concern but Wellwright was too used to being ignored by the beautiful. Eventually she found her path blocked by a pale young man with the demeanour of a poet. Can I help you? he said, You seem a little lost? Yes, I think I might be. she said in a very disconnected fashion. I suspect that I lack an Alice or a Roundwood. I think thats what I lack. It may have been very nineteenth century delivery but it was strangely perfect English. Im afraid I cant help you there. he replied, undeterred and unlikely to be deflected, Would you like a drink, perhaps? Possibly she mused as if weighing the suggestion for potential efficacy. Yes, maybe. she concluded, taking his glass of wine from him and draining it without a pause. Is there anything else I can get for you? he responded with a wry, knowing grin. Possibly she said, You could get vucking lost vor me! 344

In another room at the top of the hotel Father Smith sat on the bed alongside the good wife as both listened intently to Blake who had also re-established his dogcollar. It might have been a private prayer meeting but there were no prayers. It may have been a personal counseling session for the fallen woman but the only thing she appeared to have fallen on were good times judging by her exquisite appearance. For any useful purpose there appeared to be simply too many priests. It could, of course, have been an exorcism which would account for the church presenting itself mob-handed but none of the parties appeared possessed. Father Smith seemed to be cursed with quite the opposite affliction. He seemed completely vacant, as if a stomach pump had accidentally been left running, allowing the thoughtless machine to gobble up the entirety of his inner self. Faith alone enabled him to maintain the apparently-solid human shape - on the surface of which he lived, like a flea on cattle. The situation was difficult to read and, from her vantage point behind the grill in the ventilation conduit, close to the ceiling, Alice couldnt even hear what was being said. She was hot and uncomfortable but still very intent. Losing interest in the dull tableau below, she crawled on along the conduit, her clothes sticking to her body and beads of sweat dripping from her hair. It was the unfulfilled promise of apocrypha that had fired her imagination and sent her burrowing, in headlong pursuit of her very own white rabbit, and a more fevered kind of eroticism. She slithered and snaked, in secret and in sweat, from room to room and had no idea what she was looking for. Increasingly, it didnt seem to matter. The secret power of sex was alive within her. Her temperature rose and her clothes became scuffed and torn. As her body started to melt, and the skin fused with the clothes, her head started to swim and the excitement grew. Every casual rise and flow or the slow caress of some gentle friction sparked 345

a feverish warmth that shot like escaping flame through the whole of her body. She started to pant and blow, as she gave herself over to the spasm of an outstretched roll, straining to the arch of herself like a sun-blessed dolphin. And the desperate hiss of an orgasm slowly exploded into an unmistakable scream, bouncing and echoing down every inch of every conduit like a roller-coaster of limp-eyed pleasure. The good wife was stirred by the sound and extended a longing glance in its vague direction. She understood the language of such natural forces. Father Smith shivered and wavered like a man concealing guilt and wrestled to expel the ghosts from his mind; shooing them out of the door the emaciated witches in bedraggled nightclothes, moaning beyond breath in unremitting agony. Id like to go through it just one more time. said Blake, with a reassuring firmness that allowed for no objection. .Just one more time. I want us to go through it just one more time. He seemed to say things twice, without actually appearing to do so. And yet it was never an exact repetition. First time round he was always, quite definitely, the author of the proposed action. Second time round, the desire was inclusive they had been incorporated and felt pleased, privileged and very keen. The control I gave you - do you have the control?. he began again. Yes. said Father Smith, producing the small multi-buttoned device from his breast pocket. I have told you what to do with it. Blake paused, Tell me, what are you to do with it? Nothing, replied Father Smith, until you tell us to do something with it. And you can both hear me..inside your head?

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Yes. they both replied, after the due pause that allowed the second half of Blakes sentence to resonate in their heads inside your head? And you, my dear Ursula, he continued, do you have the power source for the control? I do. said the renamed, good wife holding forth a sturdy handbag for confirmation. And? I must carry it over my shoulder at all times, and, under no circumstances, should I open it because the air will corrupt the batteries. Exactly! Blake smiled, And I have told you what to do if something happens to me. If I am contained, or disabled, or disposed of in some way what do you do if that happens? Whatever we like, they replied with relish, to exact retribution! And what is all of this for? Blake asked finally, What does it all mean? What is the purpose, and the reason? What will be the outcome? We have no idea whatsoever. they both said, without concern, .But to do otherwise would be unthinkable. Excellent! said Blake, And now I want you, Father Smith, and you, Ursula Wellbred, to go and join the party, and have as much fun as you want. There was the tumultuous crash of a clattering cymbal followed by the resounding thud of a portentous bass drum. All of which meant that, in an unidentified room, in the matrix of unidentified rooms, Alice had landed heavily. Like a sky-diver, she had crashed on top of the dislodged ventilation cover, as she had plunged into unaided, and unsupported, flight. Jazz had emerged from the shower and, with his back to the fallen intruder, had only heard the fearsome crash. He leapt forward instinctively, onto the bed, diving 347

full-length for the gun, and leaving his towel behind him. He recovered to see the unkempt girl, moist with sweat, sitting amidst her savagely-torn clothing. Her whole body was haphazardly smeared with grease and dust, like a wild and untamed thing viciously abused by abstract art. He didnt recognise the receptionist at first, but the circumstance the cold metal of the gun in his hand, the breathy sweat of the undulating woman, and her dirtiness made vivid on the very surface of her skin the circumstance brought forward an enormous erection. Alice saw it rise like a beckoning finger and, in an instant, was upon it and devouring it like a tiger after the kill. He was catapulted in seconds to the spluttering heights of the kind of orgasm only ever found in surprise. He rumbled on, with the steady menace of a volcano, before giving unrestrained voice to the eventual explosion, alternating between desperate simpering and violent yelping. And eventually he reached a giddying climax with a thousand variations on the word Yes!- like a man subject to visions. Strike two for the voracious receptionist, and still no white rabbit! Thumper was starting to take it personally as he listened to the second orgasmic barrage, and wondered whether the voices were just his own demons - just ghosts in his own head, and not at all real. A glance across to sister Charlie, however, confirmed that they were real. They had both frozen in mid-stride as they were heading for the door. They both similarly cocked their heads towards the engaging noise like knowing animals on the promontory of a moon-cast desert ridge silhouetted like extra-terrestrials on a bike. She looked across at Thumper with simper in her eyes and, ever so slowly, slid her skirt upwards, so taut across her thighs, until all was but revealed - pressing like hope against the virgin white of her underwear. Thumpers continuing inadequacy and desperation spread across his face in a complex expression that could have been read in 348

an infinity of different ways. Frustration and pity were, however, most apparent and sister Charlie chose to read these sympathetically. Youre right, she said, returning her skirt to decency, we really dont have time. It would be reckless. As they gathered themselves and left the room, Thumper was still wrestling with his usual demons who insisted that sister Charlie had not said reckless at all, but rather - wreck lust. This offered an intriguing variety of meanings but in all of them, he was the wreck. Finally the continued whips and scorns had mounted sufficiently to call forth a profound sense of martyrdom. Anger had hitherto been missing, but its eventual arrival at this moment brought a very accessible sharpness to his passion. The untargeted rage found expression in a powerful and unexpected erection. And the irony of its timing was not lost on Thumper. Yeah! he said out loud though he imagined he was involved in a private, internal conversation with the mean spirit that had authored the ironic erection, too late and too inconvenient Oh yeah! yes, yes, yes, now I get it! . now, eh? now! Eh? Now?! Yes, yes, yes..oh yerssss! and so on. All of this said out loud as he walked on, oblivious, beside the bemused sister. Comparison with the noises and syntax of the very recent orgasm became unavoidable, though this never occurred to Thumper, deep in his private debate. The muttering and seething continued as the pair disappeared down the corridor into the distance. It only reached its apparent, screaming crescendo at the turn of the corner where Thumpers internal distraction had caused him to overlook the sudden drop of the stairs. Consequently, he tumbled, with ill grace, into a stuttering fall and a volley of unrelenting expletives. He came to rest, largely unharmed, at the halflanding where sister Charlie caught up with him and helped him gather his feet. 349

Come, come, darling. she said, but Thumper misread the nature of the enquiry; the intended comfort of the reassurrance. Alice, on the other hand (though not the hand on this occasion) had no need for such enquiry. She laid back from the feast and took her temporary ease. Recovered, replete and now incredibly late, Jazz had leapt from the bed and sluiced himself down again in the shower. Dashing from pillar to post he pursued an urgent readiness with concentrated efficiency. Emerging from the bathroom for the final time in his black barathea suit and adjusted his dog collar in an attempt to stretch it for more breathing space. Alice tracked the holy man with a fixed impression like an android scanning the life-form for understanding. In her life before sex, Priests had had, for her, a certain stature and meaning. Even in the fantasies she could never admit to herself, Priests had never figured. Fortunately, before this potentially disturbing mental conflict could develop into a major crisis she managed to fixate on Jazzs penis like a visual mantra. And only when she cast her eyes to his priestly groin did she realise the uniform was impenetrable like a force-field. And this provided her with the necessary explanation for the absence of priests in her fantasies; fantasies she never used to admit having. They were protected by the impenetrable force-field of their uniform. Beyond that they were probably as juicy as any other man, maybe even juicier by being fresher. Jazz merely took the silence of the girls fixed stir as confirmation of the madness he had suspected from their very first meeting. He retreated to the bathroom to brush his teeth and when he returned Alice had gone this time through the door. He picked up his gun from where it had fallen, on the floor, and checked that it was loaded and fully operational. And then, carefully, he placed it inside the cavity carved out of his appropriately-sized bible. He 350

checked himself in the mirror and hurried out of the room, carrying the bible, in the accustomed manner, over his heart. Before he could close the door, however, he caught sight of the Father Smith, Father Blake and the enigmatic Ursula appearing from around a distant corner. Inexplicably he was momentarily thrown and dashed back into the room to await their passing, unsure of whether they had seen him. Delaying himself even further beyond the patience of Brewholder, he waited long enough to be sure that the coast was clear before leaving the room again. He locked the door and skipped downstairs to the reception area. Fortunately he was unobserved, presenting as he did an ungainly sight, but the events and exertions had taken a toll on him and he started to sweat. And their always appears to something unnatural or vaguely demonic about a priest that sweats. Out of uniform and engaged in lay pursuits it was acceptable, but while on duty it was disturbing. From a distance, however, it was hardly noticeable, or wouldnt have been without the furtive twitching and glancing. Apart from the sweating, this is probably the other major feature one expects to be missing from the behavioural repertoire of priests. Unable to spot Brewholder, Jazz had begun to skulk around with increasing anxiety, fearing the dire consequences of his tardiness. The increased anxiety then exacerbated the sweating which, in turn, hampered his firm grip on the bible which contained the gun. The sweating and the furtive are as nothing when compared to the sudden, accidental appearance of a gun from a dropped bible. He managed to recover the eventual slip of the book, however, by trapping it, mid-fall against his thigh. His subsequent concern to right the book without tipping out the gun produced a slow and over-elaborate procedure demanding an inordinate degree of tongue-squirming concentration, and muttered profanity. The perfect 351

imitation of a hopeless drunk trying to trap, by stealth, a clearly inanimate object. Thankfully he had secured the damned fucking book before he was distracted by the vicious hiss from Brewholder in the wood-paneled telephone kiosk where he had taken refuge. Having joined his master in the telephone kiosk both quickly came to realise that this was probably a mistake; an unforced error. A small sound-proofed box is ill-equipped to house two full-grown, nervous men both sweating and one still glowing from the unmistakable residue of the sparkling semen his rushed ablutions had failed to discover. Good God, man, said Brewholder, controlling a minor retch, Have you no sense of smell, you pitiless bastard?. And Jazz hid his embarrassment with an apologetic cough which sadly only served to envelop the genteel solicitor with the harsh stench of last nights drinking, sweetened only by its necessary travel through some intestinal decay. Brewholder struggled to voice any further objection Goog Goooooo.! he was heard to whimper as he stumbled from the kiosk with tears in his eyes and a gagging in his throat, pursued apparently by a priest. The stunned reaction in the reception lounge immediately triggered Jazzs trained responses and, in an instant, all were reassured that the priest was only ministering to the mans distress. The poor man was eventually raised to his feet and, still mouthing, like a fish; the mute screams of a man just rescued from a lynching, he was helped across to some secluded seats. Where the hell have you been? he said when his faculties returned to him, his face turned away from Jazz like an offended lover. Im afraid I was delayed. Jazz replied, trying to re-establish eye contact ..but brewholders face seemed magnetically opposed to the stench of his breath. 352

Im very sorry but it was unavoidable. What really matters is that you are alright, and that I am here now. The past is passed. Its goneand will never return. Brewholder was momentarily distracted by the obvious contradiction the recent past returning in Jazzs regurgitated stench. The distraction was slight, however, and with the comfort of some access to fresher air his focus returned, along with his anxieties. Have you managed to catch sight of him? asked Brewholder. Them! replied Jazz, recalling Father Smith and Father Blake. Them! gasped Brewholder, He has an accomplice? I dont know. said Jazz, I have simply seen two priests. I know nothing about them. They may be just priests! But they may not. I want then dead! I cant go around just killing peoplepriests. Suppose I kill them and then more priests arrive.do I kill them too? Yes, thats why I am paying you! I cant exterminate the entire priest population! I only want that part of the priest population that approaches near to me to be exterminated. But that would include me! I am a priest. Do I have to kill myself .. it would seem a rather silly contract to have entered into if that is its import? You are not a priest! said Brewholder irritably, .No more than you are a solicitor! You are simply dressed as a priest to assist your purpose! Exactly my point! replied Jazz, We do not know these people. They too may be guilty only of impersonation.

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In that case, their illicit dissembling, for whatever slight purpose, will have wrought upon them an unequal penalty. I want them dead. And how can you be sure that I am not in fact a priest..a true priest. My good man, he said with some finality, if I had wanted a philosopher I would have hired one. I wanted someone just to protect me by killing other people, and that is what I believe I have got. If that proves not to be the case I will go and get someone else..in which event you may yet get the opportunity to suffer the consequences of being a real priest, or a careless dissembler. Go and kill. The conversation was demonstrably over as Brewholder rose to his feet and walked slowly back to his wood-paneled telephone kiosk, and closed the door. Jazz regarded Brewholders departure with some mild frustration, but largely disinterest. The solicitor seemed to be quite certain of what he wanted and how to get it. Within a second, however, Brewholder re-emerged from the telephone kiosk with a handkerchief to his face and disappeared into the adjacent kiosk, to take up a fresh residence. Jazz shuffled on towards the sound of music and the main festivities. The civic Reception was now full to capacity and the master of ceremonies was about to bring the occasion to order. As Jazz passed through the doorway he was unwittingly knocked aside by the inrushing Whisper, breathless as usual. Wellright spotted him immediately and moved towards him, only to be intercepted by the M.C. who had a briefing to agree. Whisper, for his part, had not even noticed the Guest of Honour but had his eyes fixed on Jane, at the far end of the room in conversation with a priest. Whisper propelled himself towards a probablyincompetent apology, dislodging numerous drinks on his way as he nudged past the unwitting and the unmoved. From the distant shadows he was observed by an

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increasingly wistful Velma who couldnt decide if this was Roundwood or Alice. Ah Graeme, said uncle James, with a determined Irish brogue, Your young lady here as been telling me that shes actually a graduate from Cambridge University. Well, would you credit that? Really? replied Whisper, a little disturbed by the strangely-acquired accent, and taking no other real interest, Thanks for coming, uncle James. I didnt really have chance to explain much on the phone but Im a little uneasy about the Black Magic. Hush! Hush, now, the priest interrupted him with jolly bravado, We dont need to be alarming the young lady, now, do we? Im not alarmed, Father, Jane reassured him, I am a little intrigued though. She threw Whisper a smile and a questioning glance as a prompt to an explanation. I know all about the Old Religion Black Magic as you seem to call it its the White Magic Im uncertain about. Are you an expert in the dark arts? Ah well now, said Father James, I find that the Lord provides, and thats all the expertise I need. If he doesnt provide, then he probably has a reason and Hes not at all obliged to be sharing that reason with me. So you dont know what youre up against? asked Jane. I havent had chance to explain in detail, Whisper interrupted, but I just considered that a priest might offer some extra insurance and possibly an unpredictable element?. He turned to uncle James and confided, There have been a couple of rather ugly deaths and threats of more to come, maybe even on a grand scale. It may all be nonsense and coincidence but I just thought that the more support we had the better our chances might be. Bravo said Jane with a lot less deference than she usually displayed, The more the merrier. 355

My thought entirely! added Father James, with a modest gungho fist halfway in the air, So I brought along Father Dominic, you remember, from the wedding? He turned and cast a discreet wave to the back of the room where Whisper could, in fact, see the weeping priest with eyes currently both dry, but blinking like a cursor on a computer screen. I was particularly keen to keep my fanciful anxieties in house, so to speak. said Whisper, displaying some disappointment and a measure of alarm. If Satans afoot, you take no chances, boy! uncle James rebuked him, Theres no place here for petty pride or social sensibilities. Whispers measure of alarm suddenly became a double, and his head started to fuzz slightly. If he didnt want direct and unequivocal action perhaps he should have opted for the philosopher. As the assembly was called to order they slumped into their chairs while uncle James disappeared into the undergrowth to surface at the back of the room alongside Father Dominic, blinking like a pet Alsatian already restless at heel and impatient for the chase. Some distance to their left, there stood another priest, wrestling with a live bible in one hand and a large vodka in the other. The occasional twitching suggested possession, or hiccups but the glistening sweat on his forehead confirmed perhaps some crise de tete, or invasive tropical fever. Either way the once-saintly man had clearly taken to drink. And at a table just behind the guest of honour, two more priests sat and watched proceedings as invited dignitaries. One had the wan expression of the fabled visionary, already exhausted and blanched from the rigours of an aesthetic diet, and the vivid jigsaws he had to complete in his head. The other appeared to be a re-make of Mario Lanza, in his technicolour days. He carried with him the certainty that he could transfix the whole room with a 356

song but only if it were necessary. Whisper gazed around, somewhat irrationally, in search of more priests. It wasnt a desire for more priests, just an expectation. Drawing his eyes away from the priests they casually rolled across Ursula and caused him to drag them back for a closer look. He recognised her. He recognised her as the most stunning woman he had ever seen, but also the most daunting. He hadnt a clue who she was but she had the warmth and dazzle of a flame that called him to her candle; he was light as air and he circled like a hang-glider dropping slowly to eternal rest. Only the sharp and jarring tones of Wellright dragged him back from the abyss as the Guest of Honour launched into his address. He then bored the assembled party for thirty, full minutes, without a single humorous diversion. And when the sudden silence roused him from his torpor Whisper looked to find that all of the priests had gone. Beside him Jane still glowed, and smiled, in a manner that was either very, very knowing or completely unknowing. It is a normal but irrational assumption that because all of the priests have gone, they have all gone to the same place. As in most cases, this was not the case here as was evidenced by the muffled fracas coming from Brewholders telephone kiosk. Clearly all five priests could not all fit into such a small place but at least one had although he was currently in the process of trying to get out again, co-joined in a tussle with Brewholder. For the people in the Reception lounge it was deja vu, and so they werent unduly alarmed. As before, it was evident that the priest was ministering feverishly to the health of the excited little man. Through the half-glass door of the kiosk the strange Punch and Judy show could be seen. A very brief fracas with agitated to-ing and fro-ing was followed by a sudden peace in which the old man seemed rigid to the attentions of the priest. In fact, Brewholder was dead.

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Back in the main reception, Whisper, though he was unaware of names and identities, saw the even-moreashen Father Smith return, and very quickly persuade the beautiful Ursula to follow him back to the reception lounge. Drawn by the irresistible forces of attraction and curiosity, Whisper made toilet excuses to the knowing Jane and, after a short pause, followed the mysterious couple out into the reception lounge. For a moment he was lost, until his peripheral vision caught sight of activity in the frequented telephone kiosk. Framed in the darkened window, it was like some lugubrious silent-movie where the action was far more frantic than in normal life, and further distanced from reality by the absence of colour. It was well beyond his expectations to see the fragrant goddess, Ursula, in a forceful embrace with the fat old man pinned against the back wall with his eyes bulging as if he were being blown up like slack balloon. Shocking though this was to see, what Whisper found even more disturbing was the equally wild-eyed support and encouragement being given to her by the priest at her shoulder. But Brewholder was dead even to this most florid kiss of life. Ursula eventually gave up and pulled back from the still man who slid down the wall and disappeared from view with the sands of time albeit sands made glutinous and lumpy by an excess of lapping ocean or, in this case slavver. In profile, they both stood, identically posed, gazing down at the unseen body slumped on the floor. Their expressions made no attempt to disguise the anger and frustration at the capricious malevolence of fate, and the stupid old man. The irony was not lost on Mr.Smith, or indeed Father Smith, who had immediately recognised his old master, and then, with an equivalent immediacy, been the cause of his demise. And the manner of the dying had been through the very same agency against which Mr.Smith had 358

previously spent a lifetime offering protection. This level of detail was not known to the good wife, Ursula, who had to be prompted to remember her old solicitor and the disappointment of his candles. Mr.Smith had explained to the good wife how he had been high-jacked by Brewholder as he was passing the telephone kiosk on his return from the toilet. In a frenzy of terror and desperation, his old master had tried to strangle him. And while Mr.Smith had found it easy to restrain him, Brewholders contribution to the struggle had demanded a disproportionate amount of effort. In short, like a very small frightened animal facing similarly perceived threats, he had suffered a heart attack. Brewholder was dead. They stood like this for seconds as if offering a premature eulogy at the graveside. They were in fact debating whether to use their remote control to rewind events and recover the dead man. Fearing the threat and consequence of the mighty Blake, they were loath to risk his wrath by acting against his orders even assuming they could summon the strength to do so. The debate eventually became verbal and engaged them both in the same conversation . so we bring him back from the dead! then what?. asked Ursula. We start again.with a clean sheet .without this mess to sort out. It was a grand idea. The good wife mused and briefly entertained dreams of salvation and a future of innocence in a September sun - until she realised what Mr.Smith was actually saying of course, and the limitations of the remote control. In reality, a fold in time was something they rarely recognised these days far less understood, but they had both severely underestimated the limits of their remote control. Not waiting for confirmation from the good wife, Mr.Smith took the control from his pocket and, pointing it at the dead man, pressed the rewind with the grimace that anticipated 359

propulsion. What he actually got was nothing ! What they both got was absolutely nothing. And it felt remarkably like ice cold water; like a harsh light suddenly finding them naked in the open air, in a strange place, in a jangling kind of turmoil. A penny for your thoughts? said Jane into Whispers right ear, suddenly appearing at his back. A priest, a princess and a dumb show in a telephone box said Whisper enigmatically, recovering himself. Im unsure about the other man. There doesnt appear to be an other man No, answered Whisper, I think he slumped to the floor after the intense kissing Just kissing..? No! said Whisper, somewhat distractedly, Very unjust in my view. .very, very unjust.. He span round slowly and led Jane away with a confident arm around her waist. He couldnt imagine where this sudden selfassurance and savoir-faire had come from but suspected that there would always be something uplifting in observing the onset of turmoil in others especially beautiful others. In the shadows at the back Blake had watched the fiasco with a controlled scowl as he re-calculated his options. From his viewpoint he considered that little had been lost though some considerable inconvenience had been introduced. The mechanics of his major offensive still lay in place. On the verge of an alternative plan he noticed with dismay another priest heading towards the alreadycrowded telephone box. With the confidence of strong drink the new priest did not hesitate to fling open the door to reveal the sorry sight of the dead man and his supposed killers. Blake held his breath and reassured himself that this was just more inconveniencenothing more. Father Smith and Ursula were still paused in confusion and turmoil when the door flew open and did not 360

register the few sharp words delivered to them. They did, however, see the priest pull out an impressive pistol from the concealment of his bible and thrust it into their faces. One can only assume that the telephone box sat on a particularly ferocious junction of ley lines since once more the frenzy returned to the small box. Father Smith could hear the noise but could not separate it into words. It was all going to fast, and the gun was waving on the verge of discharge. From a distance, in the shadows, Blake had developed a certain clarity in his perception of the developing situation; anticipating reactions, but fearing he may be a split-second behind. Almost recognising the futility of the situation he mouthed into his lapelmicrophone Whatever you do.the last thing you would want to do is ..to press the pause button ! Of course, this was not true. That was exactly what Father Smith felt the need to do. All alternatives and possibilities had deserted him, and while he had lost all faith in the remote control his instincts had not yet been re-programmed accordingly. Ursula, as a terrified and powerless observer, suddenly saw Father Smith reach for the pause button and elation spread across her face from ear to ear; a smile she sent sneering into the gunmans face. And there the smile stayed, frozen in an endless pause, as Father Smith, with the too-late warning in his ear, pressed the desired pause and let loose the bomb Blake had carefully packed in Ursulas handbag. It was a small, compact but deadly bomb which caused no great disturbance much beyond the confines of the crowded telephone box. As Father Smith had produced the remote control Father Jazz had presumed it to be a gun and had thrown himself at it. The consequence of all of this was that the whole group had tumbled in a neat pile on top of the bomb inside the telephone box. They took the full force of the impact and, while they all died (apart from 361

Brewholder who was already dead), they can take comfort that they muffled both the noise and the peripheral damage from the bomb causing little disturbance to anyone else. And, indeed, not only would all of the deaths be attributable to the bomb, their grouping was so close as to inhibit any prospect of distinguishing between killer and victims. In the manner of all of the best hotels, discretion was secured at all levels and the matter dealt with so efficiently, and secretly, that most the guests at the reception were unaware that anything untoward had happened. The Manager insured that the gun was quickly retrieved and removed to a shelf beneath the reception desk since he considered that it introduced a vulgar element into the incident. A mysterious explosion where there were only victims and no apparent protagonists offered much more the suggestion of a natural disaster. And such natural disasters were far more acceptable than ugly incidents. And this particular disaster was even more acceptable since there had been priests involved ensuring, for the victims, expert service in all their dealings with the agents of Paradise. Ambulances recovered the bodies and relevant interviews were conducted so discretely, and peremptorily, that even Inspector Thumper Jenkins remained oblivious to anything to do with the event an embarrassment he might never survive. Blake, moving in the shadows towards the main reception mumbled irritably to himself. He hated inefficiency. He had at last secured some of the longpromised vengeance on the old man, his sot of a wife and the interfering flake of a daughter. Natural causes, albeit instigated by his witless agents, had not been his preferred means of dispatch but, it was a result of sorts. Phase one was complete, but he had other fish to fry, much bigger fish. His original scheme had been arranged to ensure that the separate closures would be effortlessly coordinated, 362

almost balletic in their choreography.. For the moment he was left with an ungainly pause in his proceedings. and no immediate plan just his gifts. His ballerina had fallen on her arse and could find no graceful way back to her feet. No power of suggestion could manage that. He decided she could stay there because his keen eye had seen where the recovered gun had been hidden. He hated guns but.he fell back into the shadows in search of another principal dancer. Restless at his table, Thumper fidgeted and rubbed heavily at his groin to ease the bruising from his fall which had predictably found his weak point. Sister Charlie glanced at this unsavoury display with increasing irritation as she stalked the rich and landed gentry, represented here by Lord Wellwright. With a transparent intensity she sorted through her options to seek out the best opportunity to ambush his attention. However, all of her options appeared to be Striptease, apart from the more obvious resort to the unprompted sexual attack - as dirty and voracious as she could manage. Neither seemed possible in such refined company but she had yet not given up on the striptease. Distracted by Thumpers continued labouring at his groin, Sister Charlie reached into her bag and took out a painkiller which she passed over to the aching man with a glass of wine. Thumper took the pill, without question, but inexplicably checked all round first for observers. It was presumably the perennial concern of all policemen not to be thought ailing, or weakened in any way. Alice in the darkened gallery high above the reception hall was the only interested observer, and she was currently revising her understanding of apocrypha - towards drugs rather than equipment. She could only imagine that the pill, combined with the persistent rubbing, was a technique for coaxing out the angry monster that would rampage like a bucking bronco between her desperate thighs. She considered that

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she did not have much time and needed to communicate with the beast beneath. Close by, Whisper had returned to his table with Jane. The mysterious gift of self-confidence continued to flourish and bloom all over him, filling out his form into the reconceived stature of a capable man. And Jane too appeared uncharacteristically taken with her new man, flowing about him, and over him, like the temperate waters of an exotic island; whispering into his ears like velvet flames, her eyes near-liquid and already promisingly naked. We need to talk. said a voice in the wrong ear; and clearly the wrong voice. He turned to see Wellwright standing over him with a serious expression. And, from Whispers shoulder, Jane also lifted her eyes towards the intruder and held his gaze like a cat, uncertain but ready for any necessary pounce. Thumper recognised immediately the strange significance of the two previously-unrelated characters coming together. There was no known link between Whisper and the noble Lord which was why Thumper had previously been so skeptical. But now, before his very eyes, they came together like conspirators. He dragged his chair backwards slightly to improve his casual view of the pair and, hopefully catch the occasional bit of conversation. For Sister Charlie the movement was a drift too far away from her. The attention of both her escort and her target had swung too far away from her altogether. In desperation she stormed off in search of the band, and Karaoke. Whisper was patently concerned at the turn of events and a degree of fear showed itself on his face. He knew of Wellwright in both of his guises, and in both of those guises Whisper had managed to offer him only ignominy and death not his own death, of course, but other peoples. He also suspected the man of dark powers, the possible force and variety of which gave him pause. The tension was palpable, and Thumper palped it ! 364

Thumper was locked in concentration and watched every move and every expression. And as Sister Charlie launched into a very palm-orchestra version of You can keep your hat on!, he saw a pinprick of light play like a firefly on Wellwrights forehead. Recognising the laser sight of a snipers rifle Thumper immediately span round and spotted the probable assassin behind a light in the dark and distant gallery. Needless to say, it was Alice with a cheap torch, and an immense grin of satisfaction at the immediacy of her success. Thumper was running across towards the service exit with the pronounced limp of severe and worsening bruising. But all Alice could see was a man struggling to contain the leviathan in his trousers which was, even now, too big to accommodate both legs in a simple canter. Wellwright cocked his head and made to speak again but on the instant Father James arrived, with Father Dominic at his side, like Batman and Dobbin. Father Dominic displaying far less of the reckless and dynamic and far more of the witless but loyal. Is there a problem here, Graham? asked the clerical uncle, with a vague intimation of sundry powers, or at least access to them. The others had not a clue who Graham was and were forced to assume that the eccentric priest had stumbled, uninvited into the wrong conversation. Wellwright blazed at him from behind a sneer and let loose a snort of frustration. Father James caught the whiff of a devil and pressed himself forward like a man prepared, with Dobbin over his shoulder, winking and weeping like a sorely-infected donkey. No! said Whisper very firmly into the canopy of overhanging faces that the group had formed above him. And while one might have expected a momentary pause Father James just smiled broadly and immediately pulled back too quickly for the dilatory Dobbin who took a blow

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to the nose and so promoted yet another of his apertures into the ranks of the involuntary dripping. Oh right! said Father James brightly, Just checking. After all I am youre godfather. This was also true for Father Dobbin, although in a far more literal sense God / Father. The constant leakage of fluids seamed to have caused some imbalance in father Dominics humours. And this appeared to have produced intermittent degrees of disassociation of a type more commonly seen in medieval times. he seemed to need a physical God. And Father James had the manner and bearing of God combined with an easy familiarity with an ever-increasing number of Saints or at least their names. If that man isnt a Devil, then there isnt one here said Father James confidentially to the donkey as they walked away. The donkey couldnt discern any logic in the statement but then We need to talk. Wellwright said again in an attempt to resume where they had left off. Whisper moved his mouth to speak but was deafened by a resounding cheer from an audience which had at last been offered some entertainment, and was becoming raucous. Sister Charlie, equipped with her one good idea, had thrown herself into a striptease that was uncovering a whole new expression of eroticism as she writhed uninhibitedly across the genteel strains of the ambling orchestra. Wellwright made the mistake of looking over his shoulder to see what had caused the interruption and was immediately drawn into the slithering web of the purposeful vamp. She had made the essential eye contact from which she presumed licence to drag him bodily into the dance and hopefully into rapture. Thumper, having found the darkened depths of the gallery, was running towards the would-be assassin when he was distracted by the cheers below, and then dismayed to see his girlfriend cavorting half-naked with the Guest of Honour. He slowed to a virtual stop and lifted his eyes to 366

heaven in that usual, pitiful plea for understanding from the spiteful Gods Fuck me! he sighed, with real heartfelt feeling. Alice might have wished for something more beguiling, and certainly expected a tab of Apocrypha as an appetiser, but she need no second asking. Before Thumper could even recall any thought of an assassin he felt the full force of Alice clamped to his penis like a succubus roused from a thousand years of lustful sleep and interrupted dreams. He screamed with the initial shock then subsided into a low groan of resignation Beneath every one froze and looked to the heavens expecting to see consequences, but nothing and no-one emerged. Father James, rushed forward again, recognising the sounds of a Devil. Theres something of the Devil in that! but Dobbin noticed that the only declared candidate for that role was still standing silently beside them. While this might have caused some to lose faith in his mentor, the donkey just assumed that this new Devil up above them had simply arrived late. An uneasy recovery had just started to spread over the bemused guests when Velma Svolti stepped forward from the shadows, with the rigid composure of a Zombie, to point the recovered gun at Lord Wellwright. This was fast becoming a real pinball ride. Eyes struggled to anticipate the action but Jane, with the instincts and agility of a street smart alley cat, pulled Whisper from his seat and, in an instant, dragged him across the short distance to French windows, and away. Svolti didnt blink and seemed neither concerned, nor to have noticed the escape. But no-one else followed suit afraid that the element of surprise had now gone; noone felt confident enough to throw a second double-six in the immediate wake of the first. Outside the air was cool

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and refreshing as Jane pulled Whisper onward and away at a pace that was slowing and becoming far more gentle. In the comforting quiet Whisper was labouring to gather his lagging thoughts when the peace was suddenly broken by a variegated scream which appeared to start out as ecstasy then switched to resigned terror before ending with a dull crash. It painted the unmistakable picture of a man falling accidentally from sex in the gallery to a heap on a traumatised table. Whisper and Jane stopped at the very edge of their escape and listened to the subsequent pause. It was the circus pause of whatever next? which held them breathless, in the absence of a drum roll. A single shot from the recovered revolver punctuated the silence and then held it for another instant. Then flames engulfed the whole wing of the building as if it had suddenly been set upon by dragons with grudges, emerging on cue from a variety of secret hiding places. There was a communal gasp from those inside as from a crowd transfixed by unexpected fireworks. But this was quickly followed by screaming and scrabbling in a chaotic conflagration that would always remain unfathomable. So ends the triumphal march of stumbling waiters, careless with flaming desserts soused in illicit, eastern-European liquor. Swoosh!

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Chapter Twenty-Three
He drifted on his back in the river, gazing up through his hands; his hands still heavy with blood. He gazed up at the night sky. He gazed up at a large, vivid, fleshy moon, pock-marked like a face unfairly afflicted; sullen in the night; regretful the morning after, but having no memory of the night before. But it was still night, not too many minutes had passed. After several more uncounted minutes he was deposited on the opposite side of the river, and emerged on new land, afresh, cleaned once more from the service of water and natural things. He built a small fire and looked for sleep, gazing, hypnotised, on the full moon. A flutter of silhouetted leaves intruded across its jaundiced face from the lean of a nearby tree, like a shadow-graph on skin - a man in a cowl bent over the certainty of his undisclosed prayer. All of the essential elements seemed to be here, as he counted them off - earth, air, fire and water. And when day came he reappeared through the morning mist, stumbling up the gentle incline leading him to where the old Manor should be. The meadow grass was neatly cut and the earth was succulent to the tread of his bare feet. He was naked but didn't seem alert to that fact. And he was wet. Behind him the meadow fell away to a small wood, and beyond that the small but fast-flowing river. Ahead, he rose towards manicured gardens, and he could see smoke rising from the ashes of a once- imposing building, now tired, toothless, and bowed against the sky; so many generations, so many people - all forever incomplete. And he watched, with no apparent surprise, as the sated fire gave itself up to the chill of the morning air. All of the

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essential elements seemed to be here, as he counted them off - earth, air, fire and water.

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Chapter Twenty-Three.2
As he continued to walk away, the dramatic conflagration of his past life held his attention and his gaze. Labouring with this backward glance he struggled to keep pace with the shimmering Jane who breasted the gentle breeze like an animal, printing the rippling curves of her body onto the darkening sky. Her head was held high and she beamed with a transcendent peace that rayed out like sunlight from the very pores of her skin. Whether it was his relentless onward stride, or the dying down of his past lifes clamour, Whisper felt himself drawn to the future. He felt the pull of his backward glance weaken. He fell more easily into step with the beautiful women and followed her wordlessly into the lower belly of the wooded gardens, beyond the reach and sound of the flames - now extending to the sky like the hands and hallelujahs of a pagan bonfire. They found a river and a sheltered copse. Branches dipped their thirst into the water like the shadows of sleepless spirits, and she captured his gaze, and sang him a weightless song. Amid the flames and chaos of tumbling buildings Wellwright lay dead on the floor from a single shot to his forehead. Svolti remained stood over him, like an android automatically switched off on completion of its final function. Blake huddled over the corpse and appeared to be going through the dead man's wallet, careless, or resigned, to the danger. His feverish activity suggested anything but common theft and as he confirmed Wellwrights identity, he pummeled the floor in desperate frustration. Who the fuck is this? he demanded of his misguided assassin, abandoning forever his suave, assured control.

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This is the man I loved who never loved me. said Svolti now become like a woman emerging from therapy, apparently discovering words she had never used before. You told me this was Smith Mr fucking Smith, you said! Brewholders geek . the only person who might be able to connect me with any of this fucking shambles! Yes, I did, didnt I" she said, without any real interest. Youre incredibly suggestible, you know. Still, I wouldn't concern yourself too much . she cast an eye across the greedy flames and crashing timbers, . youre a dead man anyway! Never EVER say die! sneered the disenchanted Svengali as he quickly regained his feet. OK!" she said, "Ill say it for youDie! With an expertise far too practiced to be accidental she placed another bullet dead centre of Blakes forehead. The force of it seemed to draw back the skin into a look of offended surprise, a look which remained pinned to the face long after the certainty of death had taken over. I wonder if I over-reacted to Wellwright?.to the priest? she mused to herself, as she ambled, almost accidentally, towards escape like a charmed person. Over-reactions, accidents .whatever.death rarely seems to display any purpose. Whisper failed to catch the words of Janes song, nor could he remember any tune but somehow he knew it to be a sad song. It was the lament of a daughter for the death of her priestly father at the hands of a casually evil man who killed without cause and demonstrated no allegiances, pity or purpose. Death rarely seems to display any purpose. It was also a song of revenge for the death, in support of her fathers priestly cause. Priestman by name, and Priestman by calling.

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Whisper failed to understand the import of the song and felt sure he had got much of the detail wrong. Like a dream he seemed to have concocted a loose narrative from the jumble that had gathered in his mind and things didnt quite fit together, some didnt fit at all and others were entirely missing or misrepresented. Dreams rarely seem to display any purpose, or is that stories .. stories rarely seem to display any purpose. Not at all like life which always has a clear and satisfying purpose, and. he eventually gave up and considered himself much happier with accidents. He didnt know if it was the song or his attempted unraveling of it, but he felt a little tired; a little drowsy. There was a kind of peaceful euphoria to the tiredness of the kind he imagined dying men experienced as they snuggled up in the snowy wastes to embrace the disastrous sleep. Shall we swim in the moonlight? asked Jane as she let her dress slip from her shoulders. Whisper was powerless to refuse. She walked into the water and as it lapped around her navel she stretched back a hand to lead him into the river. Without pausing to take off his clothes, or reflect upon the fact that he couldnt swim, Whisper strode purposefully into the water. any form of purpose being anathema to death. As he reached her, she smiled reassuringly to confirm how pleasant this all was, and gently dispatched him onwards into the river with words only he could hear. Whisper waded on towards the flood of the water, feeling it climb up his body like a lecherous animal, pawing at his chest and licking at his ears. He felt brave and at peace in the swell of Janes supposed pleasure, and she, in turn, watched him from the shore, her dress now recovered, and clinging like the spirit of her grateful father to her wet body. Rosy in the moonlight and pale in her satisfaction, she watched until Whisper was just an uncertain head on 373

the fast-flowing water and then quickly she turned and, with a light skip, strode off into the welcoming night. Jane was well into the disappearing distance by the time Whisper gulped his first draught of muddy water and, lurching at the sudden shock, slipped beneath the water. Amid the kaleidoscope of bubbles and spluttering he remembered he couldnt swim and started to panic. Unfortunately the energy and incompetence of his thrashings about led him straight to the bottom of the river where his head found a protruding stone. The sharp bump brought an immediate end to his thrashings as he blacked out, and hung in the flow like a broken twig - awaiting only the referees deliberate and final count. Morning saw him inexplicably washed up on the far shore with a severe bruise on his forehead but no other obvious damage. He couldnt remember where he was or how he came to be there. So maybe there was some untold damage - untold for the moment that is.

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